


The Ones We Stand By

by Anonymous



Series: The Ones [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blades - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, Main Quest - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Romance, The Companions - Freeform, Thieves Guild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 66,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More and more dragons join Alduin in the sky above Skyrim every day. Beneath the chaos, the land's political powers gamble with the enemy's patience - And still the heroes of legend remain mysteriously absent. </p>
<p>A short while ago, Skyrim had two Dovahkiin - now it may not even have one. One is still recovering from a disturbingly close brush with death, the other has lost the Thu'um just when it is needed most. If there's enough dragonblood left in their veins at all, will they even want it? Or will there be no one left to stand by?</p>
<p>Fate never promised to make life for a Dragonborn easy... But it never should have come to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowstorms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSST. 
> 
> Friendly reminder that this is the second part of a series! You probably /could/ start reading from here, but uh, it'd be confusing and you'd miss all sorts of snarky banter from the first. So. Make sure you've read The Ones We Die For. :)

The fire's warmth extends only a few paces away from the lean-to; and even though mage-fire burns hotter than natural fire, Larjan Silvereyes still feels none of it once he leaves camp. Snow flies into his eyes between pained blinks and the flakes are so wet and heavy that the ones that settle on his face threaten to suffocate him.

It doesn't quite feel right to him to leave Istha behind, not when she's as injured as she seems, but he's only mildly surprised to find that he trusts Karliah. If Istha's already survived two days in her care, he can afford to leave her momentarily. Larjan wipes at his cheeks with the back of the torn leather gauntlet and sputters. He toys with the idea of letting the Wolf out a little - it's far better suited to this environment than he is, and he knows both from experience and seeing his father that there's always a few hours after transformations where he'll feel no cold.

But it's not safe here. Aela's gone now, and he hasn't had the Blood for long enough to be certain he won't hurt the others. With a sigh, he shoulders through the blizzard, squinting through the white whirlwind to the pile of firewood Karliah says she dropped. He finds it eventually, mostly submerged in the snow that's piled overtop, and digs the logs out. He hopes one of the others will be able to dry them out with some fancy magic trick, or they may have a very cold night. Even mage-fire has its limits when it comes to wet wood.

_Dragon-fire would be able to burn_ , he thinks guiltily. _If I could Shout._ He's tried not to think about the loss of his Voice the past few days, desperately hoping Esbern wouldn't ask him to demonstrate or hunt down a dragon like Delphine did. But the worry remains present in the back of his mind. If he can't Shout...

He's distracted from his thoughts by a sudden sweep of golden light that shines even through the snowstorm. He falters slightly in his slow trudge through the snow, clutching at the firewood. It comes again, this time accompanied by blue, and the Wolf can taste the sharp tang of electricity on the air.

He drops the firewood and runs.

His first thought is that they're under attack, and it takes him a moment to realize that the opponent matching Esbern's blue sparks with hot bursts of flame is none other than Istha. Karliah lies slumped on the ground by the fire, her legs encased in a block of ice. He reigns the Wolf back as well as he can, clenching his fists to hide the shrinking claws.

"Istha!" Larjan calls, running towards her swaying silhouette. She doesn't recognize him at first, throwing her palms forward and letting flames lick hungrily at Larjan's outstretched arms, and he recoils from the pouring of magic until she seems to see him and stops.

"Larjan?" she asks thickly, still crouched on the defensive. "You have to run, Karliah is..."

She begins to sway even more violently, tipping to the side. He catches her before she hits the ground but she doesn't stop struggling until he calls her name several more times. She stills as he kneels with her, and searches his face with wide, unfocused red eyes. He's never been happier to see her eerie gaze.

"Mercer... They're going to kill you too, have to run..."

"No, they're friends," Larjan explains, turning slightly to find Esbern still standing defensively, an ice spike ready in each hand. "That's Esbern, Delphine sent me to find him. He's going to help us stop the dragons. And you know Karliah already. She's been taking care of you."

"She shot me," Istha complains, almost child-like in her exhausted petulance. Her eyes are already drifting close, though she struggles against the onset of unconsciousness. Larjan smooths a stray piece of hair away from her gray cheeks and tries to smile, hoping she won't see sharp canines and eyes that carry a deeper hint of amber than before. How long has it been since they saw each other?

"Larjan," Istha murmurs, clutching weakly at his arm. "Larjan, it hurts."

"Of course it hurts, you nearly died two days ago and you just tried to take on two people at once," he teases.

"No, I mean it hurts," she says, forcing her eyes open to stare at his. He notices suddenly how pale her face is, and how tiny her pupils are in the centre of the crimson iris. The fingers clutching at a buckle on his forearm are trembling noticeably. Karliah appears suddenly, having melted her icy prison, and strips Istha's tattered armour off with practised fingers. Larjan draws in a sharp breath as the leather is pulled away and he sees the scarlet stain leaking through his friend's breastband and bandages. Without the barrier of linen and leather, the scent of blood hits his nose, hard. Larjan shudders violently.

"Help me get her into the tent," Karliah says urgently, already bursting into a flurry of activity, overturning scattered blankets and pulling alchemy ingredients out of her satchel.

"Larjan," Istha murmurs once more, and then her eyes roll back and Larjan is choking on that cloying scent of injury and he can't hold her anymore. He drops her unceremoniously on the furs Karliah arranges and stumbles backward, fighting the Wolf's hunger with a very human revulsion. Istha is his friend, his companion - but the Wolf can only think of tough flesh and sinewy muscles to tear its teeth into.

"Larjan," Karliah calls like an echo, the ridges in her forehead made more prominent by her concerned frown. "What are you doing? I need help! Gather some snow into that pot over there and put it over the fire. Esbern, how's your Restoration?"

Larjan only shakes his head violently, taking shallow and gasping breaths. But Istha's blood is splattered on the snow, crimson against white, and it's inevitable. The armour on his chest feels too tight already, his heart is crushed against unyielding ribs.

"I..." he stammers. "I have to go. In the woods."

"Dragonborn!" Esbern calls. "Wait!"

Whatever words the old man might have had to say are lost. Larjan flees back into the snowstorm, barely hidden by the blur of white before he's already clawing at buckles and straps to free himself. With his last traces of rational thought, he leaves his armour under the protective cover of a grove of evergreen trees, and then the Wolf takes over.

A heartbroken howl sends a nearby pair of elk running for cover.

 

............................................................................................................................

 

He returns hours later, limping and regretting the uncomfortable weight of raw meat in his stomach. Karliah says nothing when he brushes his hand along the snow-covered peak of the tent and asks how Istha is doing. He panics at first, pushing aside the tent flaps and crawling inside, but the simple rhythm of her pulse underneath his fingertips calms him. Istha stirs at his touch, involuntarily leaning her cheek into the warmth of his hand. Red eyes blink open, gaze blearily at him, and close again.

"You're an ass," she mutters, and then she is asleep again. Privately, he agrees. He ducks out of the tent and joins Karliah and Esbern by the fire.

"Blood makes me light-headed," Larjan says finally. The excuse he'd agonized over in the woods sounds weak and pathetic to him once said out loud. Esbern just gives him a look like _'this is the one they call Dragonborn? Really? This idiot?'_ and Larjan lowers his gaze in response and silently helps with skinning a rabbit for the stew that's simmering over the fire.

"My supplies are running low," Karliah says eventually. "Istha's not quite strong enough to travel on her own yet, but she won't heal fast enough without proper potions. Unrefined poultices will only go so far."

"What do you propose?" Esbern questions.

"Windhelm," Karliah says.

"You just said she's not strong enough," Larjan brings up.

"She can die out here or she can travel and have a chance of making it," Karliah says. "I'm taking her to Windhelm. She's the only contact I have in the Thieves Guild who will be able to help me expose Mercer's treacheries, and I'll never forgive myself if we lose this chance."

While his elders discuss how to transport Istha without reopening the fragile stitches holding her together, Larjan gets up and takes a walk around the small grove sheltering their camp. The majority of the trees are pines, too heavy with needles and snow to be of much use to him right now, but there are also two relatively branchless deciduous saplings, standing about as thick as his wrists and slightly taller than him.

He thinks back to his first few days in Solitude, to the stifling heat of Beirand's forge. _The world is your toolbox_ , the blacksmith muses in his memory in that quietly wise way of his. _Use it._

Larjan has absolutely no intention of dulling Aela's Skyforge dagger on wood, and he doesn't think he has the strength in his fingers for Karliah's firewood axe. Instead he kicks the saplings down, bending their thin trunks low towards the ground and snapping them. The sound draws the attention of the others, who Larjan hesitantly recruits for help.

"Not too thick," he cautions as Esbern and Karliah help snap off smaller branches from the pine trees. "Yes, like that."

The plan sketched out in his mind begins to grow clearer as they lay the saplings just outside of camp, parallel to each other and spaced the width of Istha's body. Karliah, luckily, carries an obscene amount of twine and rope, and once Larjan's plan is laid out she hands it over willingly. Istha wakes just as they finish lashing the smaller branches parallel to the saplings, and Larjan helps her sit up. She's breathing heavily by the time she's upright enough to accept a metal tankard filled with stew from Karliah.

"You're not putting me on that thing," she says when Larjan begins to explain why they've built what she calls a ladder. "How do I know it won't dump me in a snowdrift?" she asks Larjan, eyeing their makeshift transportation with disapproval. "As revenge for leaving you all those months ago?"

"I've already forgiven you for that," Larjan says. "And it won't. Ever seen a pair of snowshoes? If we've made it right, it'll glide on top of the snow behind us and you can sleep all the way to Windhelm."

"If you've made it right," Istha repeats. "And then I suppose I get to punch Ulfric Stormcloak in the face as a reward at the end, yes?"

"If you must," Larjan concedes. He takes a deep breath, but the scent of Istha's blood has faded both from Karliah's diligent care and his own feedings, and he relaxes beside her until he hears her next words.

"He told me the Thalmor captured you," Istha says. "I couldn't for the life of me understand why he and Galmar were sitting on their backsides saying the Embassy was too far away to attack, and now that I find out he lied just to gain my allegiance - it's almost enough to make me get down on a knee for Tullius."

"Istha," Larjan says.

"How blind can they both be?" Istha continues, interrupting him. "Did neither of them notice Helgen falling down on their heads? How can they still insist this ridiculous civil war of yours is the greatest present threat to Skyrim? We should be making an army to fight dragons, not Imperials. Say, where's Lydia? She should be promoted."

"Istha," Larjan says again, swallowing the tightness at the back of his throat.

"What?"

"They did capture me."

"...What?"

"The Thalmor," Larjan says, lowering his gaze because he can't bear to see the realization click in her eyes. "I spent seven weeks in the Embassy."

He holds up his left hand, displaying the stumps that remain of his last three fingers in a false show of casual acceptance. The pretence falls flat when flinches as he feels her own fingers wrap around his.

"Oh, Larjan..."

She gathers him into an embrace, all skinny arms and sharp joints and he buries his face in the crook her neck makes with her shoulder, and he can feel the pity radiating off her and he doesn't care. Karliah and Esbern give them privacy as he cries quietly into her offered comfort, and tries to tell her in broken sentences everything that's happened - Delphine and Sahloknir and Lydia, Elenwen and J'aesire and Etienne Rarnis. But he doesn't think he's coherent enough for her to understand much.

There are more words on the tip of his tongue - he wants to tell her about the _dovah_ voices that wouldn't leave him alone and forced words out of his mouth, and ask how she's kept her own in control. He wants to confess giving in to the promise of Aela's Beast Blood but fears how she might recoil in fear and disgust, and wants her to somehow fill the silence that his _dovah_ left behind when they went quiet.

But there are too many things to say between them, too many stories and questions for one night, and he is not brave enough to start crossing items off the list, and she is not strong enough to stay awake. So when his eyes have finally dried and the numbness sets back in, he pulls away from her and ignores the trailing touch along his shoulders.

"I'm glad you're awake," he says when she asks if he's okay, and takes the night's first watch on the opposite side of the camp.

The next morning, they strap Istha into the makeshift sleigh and set off for Windhelm. Larjan walks beside her whenever it's Esbern or Karliah's turn to pull her along and divides his time between looking around and using the Wolf's heightened senses to watch out for any potential threats, and looking down at her sleeping face. Karliah's lips press into a thin, tense line when he asks how she's healing.

"Mercer found an enchanted Dwarven sword," she says finally. "When we were exploring a ruin that Gallus wanted us to loot. He adored the cursed thing. He doesn't need to cut deeply with it. The enchantment alone makes it very difficult for the wound to heal."

He doesn't much like that answer, so he distracts himself with cutting down the occasional troll. There are a few wolf packs who watch their progress curiously from afar, but although they make Esbern uneasy, they never come closer.

Larjan begins to think they'll make the trek to Windhelm without further trouble, until Karliah returns from her short scouting trip ahead and grimly announces a camp of bandits up ahead.

"Bandits? There are no forts nearby. What are they doing so far out?" Esbern asks.

"I don't plan on asking," Larjan mutters. "Karliah, can we avoid them?"

She hesitates for a moment, glancing at Istha. The injured Elf is awake for a change of pace, looking up at them silently from her cocoon of bedrolls.

"They're following the road," Karliah says finally, exhaling deeply. "Esbern and I can distract them, lead them off on another trail, while you take Istha and hide somewhere off the road."

"We shouldn't split up," Esbern argues, but Larjan is already moving to take the ropes that drag Istha's sleigh from his hands.

"There are too many for us to attack them and defend Istha as well. Trust my plan," Karliah responds.

"I'm not a liability," Larjan thinks he hears Istha mutter, but her voice is too muffled by furs for him to be certain.

Larjan assures her that she isn't while they untie her from the sleigh and hide it in a nearby patch of overgrown snowberries. She winces as he picks her up, and he apologizes for jostling her until a gray hand slaps his mouth.

"Shadows hide you!" Karliah says as he carries Istha down a snowy slope, placing each foot carefully and hoping they don't slide down the rest of the way. The thief and the Blade vanish, off to tempt the bandits into following their trail, and Larjan eventually finds a rocky overhang where he and Istha can rest. They dig out extra snow and burrow their way deeper beneath the stone roof. Larjan feels his Wolf get a little skittish as he gathers Istha into his arms for warmth. He presses his face into the fur cloak covering her shoulders and tries to surreptitiously breathe in her scent. The Wolf calms.

"Comfortable?" he asks, voice muffled by the pelt in his face.

"Not really," she admits. "I think the bandages Karliah wrapped me in are as thick as a second layer of armour. I can hardly move my torso."

"Good," Larjan says. "We don't want you to pull your stitches again. You should have seen it, Istha... I thought you were going to die."

"Well I won't. It would make things too easy for Alduin," she murmurs. He doesn't laugh, and they fall into silence for a moment as a distant warcry splits the air. The bandits have taken the bait. After another moment of silence as the wind steals the voice, she speaks again. "When you walked out of the snowstorm, I thought I was dead and you were coming to take me to the afterlife."

"The Dunmer have an afterlife? A Sovngarde?" he asks, suddenly aware he knows nothing about her culture and customs.

"It's... Complicated. I suppose we go to Oblivion, unless we are bound to protect our Houses with our spirit. But... I don't know which House I belong to," she muses. "Nevermind that. Don't worry about it. We are both alive, and fighting, and that's all we need right now."

"Have you heard of the Blades?" Larjan asks. "Esbern is with them, and so is the woman we're going to meet - Delphine. Once you're healed, they can help us figure out how to stop Alduin from resurrecting the dragons-"

" Istha yelps. "That's how they're coming back? They're being resurrected?"

Of course. Larjan realizes how much time they've spent apart, how much he's learned without her by her side. They need to sit down and talk, trade all the experiences and knowledge they've gleamed from their separate travels. But first-

He clamps a hand over her mouth, and pulls her closer to his chest as she struggles, forgetting her injuries for a moment.

"Bandit coming," he hisses into her ear, and she falls limp in his grasp. He takes another long breath of the air, suddenly thankful for being downwind, and listens. Now that they're no longer talking, he can hear the soft crunch of snow under a pair of heavy boots. Still far away, slow and uncertain. The Wolf has noticed the threat before the threat has noticed them.

He releases Istha slowly, and unwraps himself from her body, crawling to the entrance of their makeshift burrow.

"Stay here," he whispers, detaching his fur cloak and loosening the buckles on his armour.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" Istha responds under her breath, reaching out to refasten the buckles he undoes.

"No, trust me!" Larjan says, swatting her hands away. Snow dislodges from their makeshift hideaway and falls on their heads and shoulders. He swallows nervously. The bandit is right above them.

Larjan darts out, Aela's dagger grasped firmly in his uninjured hand. He manages two quick slashes at each of the bandit's ankles, not deep enough to cripple, but certainly enough to get the attention of what turns out to be an older Orc with the build of a fortress. The bandit roars a response and smashes his axe on his shield in response, jumping off the rock and stalking towards Larjan.

"Stupid little boy," the Orc snarls. "I'm gonna split your belly like an old woman's purse!"

"Fitting," Larjan mutters. "Because you're a bandit, and you rob people, so comparing them to purses - that's actually quite smart... Oh fuck."

He has to swear and duck as the bandit grows tired of hearing him blabber and swings the axe at his head. Larjan doesn't see how this is a fight he can win with just the Skyforge dagger in his still-weak right hand, unless...

Larjan swallows nervously. He glances past the Orc's hulking silhouette at the snowy burrow, where he can see Istha's eyes gleam wide and red. He can only hope she'll trust him, and keep the secret. He sheathes the dagger to the sound of the Orc's roaring laughter.

"That's no fun! Go ahead, try and fight back!"

Oh, he will.

Larjan bends over, suddenly racked with pain in his ribcage as the Wolf takes over his body. Aela's explained it to him - his heart grows first, pumping violently with bloodlust. The armour is constricting in his half-transformed body, but not impossible to deal with. With a snarl, he throws his head back and finds himself at eye-level with the now terrified bandit. The Wolf howls as he leaps forward and pins the bandit to the ground as though he weighs nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

He ravages the body trapped under his heavy weight with both teeth and claws, forgetting himself for a moment in the taste of blood and tough flesh. It is the sound of magic that pulls him back to reality.

Istha stands by the burrow, leaning heavily on a rock to stay upright but with spells readied defensively in each hand, dark lips pulled back as she bares her own teeth.

The shock pulls the Wolf back inside, letting pale golden fur and wicked sharp claws vanish into black smoke and leave behind a frightened human man.

"It's me, Istha!" Larjan says, scrambling off the unrecognisable body of the bandit. His face feels sticky, and as he wipes at it with the back of his hand he realizes his lips drip with the bandit's blood. Beneath him, snow begins to melt at the wave of post-transformation warmth.

"Stay away!" she shouts. "Or I swear to Azura I'll put an ice spike between your eyes! Larjan or not, you're a damn werewolf!"

"I'm still me," Larjan whispers. Istha makes no move, and so neither does he. They stare each other down, amber-turned-blue eyes searching for forgiveness in red.

"Can you control yourself?" she asks harshly, and Larjan is suddenly thrust back into memory, after Elenwen but before the Wolf, to the days he spent fighting back Mirmulnir and Sahloknir, to the Shouts forced out of his mouth against his will simply because a dragon that can dominate, will dominate.

"Yes," he says finally, thinking of the silence in his head and the strange serenity the Wolf's bloodlust brings him. "Yes, I can control myself."

Slowly, Istha's hands drop, and the spells held in her palms extinguish. She slumps on the rock holding her up, clearly exhausted by the short burst of activity.

"If you try to atta-"

Larjan never hears the end of her sentence, because at that moment he reaches his hand up to wipe away more blood, and an arrow buries itself in his shoulder. Later, he will realize that the involuntary motion blocked his neck and likely saved his life, but at the moment all he can think about is the arrowhead sending waves of shock and pain up his arm and into his chest.

He blinks back red and struggles to sit up, clutching at his shoulder as he glances about wildly for the target.

It's another bandit, readying another arrow in his bow and fixing it upon Larjan. This time, he will not miss. The arrow flies, and fire suddenly bursts up between Larjan and the bandit. He can't help but let out a yelp as the fire comes together to form the sculpted silhouette of a female woman, built out of embers and flame. An atronach.

It hisses as the bandit's arrow finds its mark in its abdomen, and then the atronach is sweeping up the slope, leaving behind sparks and a trail of melted snow. As Larjan watches, the atronach lobs a fireball at the bandit that disintegrates the simple wooden bow clutched in his grasp, and the bandit whips out a dagger in retaliation.

Larjan doesn't wait to see what happens, but staggers to his feet and towards Istha's slumped body.

"Istha," he says, shaking her shoulders. "Istha, Istha!"

"Sorry," she says, raising her head to blink up at him tiredly. "Too tired... for magic. Atronachs are... hard."

"That's okay," Larjan says, relieved that at least she is alive and awake. He sits down on the rock beside her and pulls aside layers of leather and armour to reveal the arrow embedded in his shoulder. The smell of his blood washes over him and he curls his lip in disgust at that, but it doesn't affect the Wolf as much as that of others.

He reaches for his Skyforge dagger, gritting his teeth as he thinks about what he will have to do to get that godsdamn arrowhead out of his flesh.

Just as he thinks this, the bandit from before stumbles down into their little clearing, having apparently dealt with Istha's atronach. He bears unappetizing burns along his arms, the smell sending Larjan's stomach into disgust and the Wolf's into hunger.

"You and your little Elf bitch, bet you think you're smart for that little magic trick," the bandit snarls. Istha groans, curled in on herself like she can stop herself from bleeding out. Larjan desperately hopes Karliah's stitches haven't become unravelled yet again. "I'll get you for that. You're dead. You hear me? Dead!"

Larjan staggers to his feet, rolling the hilt of the dagger around his palm, trying to get it comfortable. The bandit's clearly injured and malnourished, but he is too. He wishes he could let the Wolf free, but he can't guarantee he'll be able to rein in the bloodlust a second time.

The bandit swings wildly with his dagger, steel bouncing off the hard planes of Larjan's armour, and he feels the ringing sound echo in his too-sensitive ears. Larjan tries to land a blow in retaliation, but the bandit is too fast, darting in and out of his reach. He lands a shallow cut on Larjan's forearm and he can't help but cry out in pain.

He feels anger bubbling up in his chest and opens his mouth to Shout-

" _YOL!_ "

The bandit collapses, a mere husk of burned flesh and twisted limbs. Nothing withstands dragonfire, and for a moment Larjan dares to let himself believe that he did it, that Hunuthnok woke up and lent him his _Thu'um_. And then Istha speaks and the fantasy crumbles.

"You should have Shouted," she says. Larjan just stares at the withered corpse, and wonders how Karliah and Esbern are doing.

"I can't," he whispers brokenly.

"Yes you can. You're the Dragonborn."

He turns to her then, holding his arms limply at his sides. Her eyes are narrowed, suspicious. Larjan stumbles forward, crumples at her side and buries his face in her lap. She doesn't ask, and he doesn't say. The guilt hangs heavily over his head as her hand tentatively brushes his tangled blond hair, over and over.

Soothing, but not nearly enough.

 

.........................................................................................................................

 

The altercation with the bandit group puts them several hours behind schedule. Karliah and Esbern return, relatively unharmed, and they deal both with the arrow in Larjan's shoulder and Istha's once again bleeding injuries. Larjan hears Karliah curse Mercer's enchanted sword a million times over as they drag the sleigh behind them. Progress is slow, and night falls again before they make it to Windhelm.

"We'll stop a few hours here," Karliah relents. "But no more. Windhelm is close."

Larjan lays his bedroll out beside Istha, and lies awake for a long time. He sleeps on his side now, unable to stand lying on the brand she left on his back even though it doesn't pain him much anymore. With the moonlight reflecting off the snow around them he can see her chest rising with every slow breath. One of her arms lies on top of the furs, fingers outstretched in his general direction, and he would only have to slightly move his own hand to be able to hold hers.

He clenches his fists and draws them closer to his own chest, but his thoughts appear not to get the message. Behind his eyelids, forbidden possibilities play out. Smooth gray skin stretched taut over muscle, red eyes smouldering from beneath half-lidded eyelashes to watch his reaction as dark lips press kisses to his hipbones and that mouth moves down and puckers -

_Stop_ , he tells himself. _Not Istha. Think Nord, think wide hips and blue eyes, think fists that can knock you out in one blow._ But as his own hands drift lower beneath the fur blanket, it's her long bony fingers he imagines trailing down his body. Because even though his Elf can't beat him in a fistfight, even though she'll never be Nord enough, she has a different kind of strength in her. One that he can't help but admire.

Afterwards he turns his back on her silhouette and stares at the treeline, feeling miserable and lonely. He must fall asleep at some point in time, because the next thing he knows Esbern is shaking his shoulders and telling him to get up, and Larjan is confused because the sky is still dark.

"'Tis my turn to watch already?" he murmurs, his voice thick with the vestiges of sleep.

"No," it is Karliah who answers. "We're going. Istha's feverish."

Larjan is instantly wide awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited and unfinished, literally uploaded as my parents yell at me to get in the car for the airport. See you all in a really long time.


	2. A Feast to Remember

  
Something warm and wet laps at her outstretched fingers, rasping at the sensitive skin there and feeling suspiciously like a... _Tongue._  
  
Istha opens one eye first, than the other. She is laid out on her back, torso weighed down by the heavy comfort of leathery-smelling furs and thick quilts. Wooden rafters crisscross above her to form an actual roof, and somewhere out of her sight a deep male voice alternatively hums and softly sings a Nordic ballad. She hears the sound of water boiling over a fire, and a stirring spoon tapped against the side of the pot. A deep breath reveals both the smell of rabbit stew and a quiet growl in her belly.  
  
The licking on her hand resumes. She turns her head to the side, slowly, carefully. A mutt pauses mid-lick to stare dolefully at her with brown eyes, and she wrinkles her nose. _Dogs. Disgusting creatures._  
  
Istha splays out her fingers and conjures a weak sparks spell between her fingertips. The dog yelps as her magic shocks its nose and bounds away, huddling close to another dog for comfort.  
  
A muttered curse interrupts the singing.   
  
"Ysgramor, behave! What did Thorsten say about licking?"   
  
A shadow moves over Istha, and she momentarily flinches before the light cast by the fire in the hearth reveals that it is only Larjan.  
  
"You're awake," he says, a relieved smile tweaking the corners of his lips upwards. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Like I want to murder Mercer," Istha replies, finding her voice hoarse from disuse. She coughs and tries again. "Ysgramor?"  
  
"A Companion hero," Larjan explains. "Also one of the dogs here. The other is Tiber."  
  
"Funny names," Istha murmurs. "You Nords..."  
  
"Don't tease," Larjan admonishes her. "Thorsten and Tulvur's admiration for the Companions is the only reason you're resting here and not out in the snow." 

Larjan grins at her and slips what she recognizes to be a Skyforge dagger out of his belt.   
  
"They didn't believe that I was really part of the Circle at first, but it was hard to argue with this sticking out of their door."  
  
"My methods of persuasion are rubbing off," Istha laughs approvingly and winces when the movement yields agony. "Where are we...? Karliah? Esbern?"  
  
"Esbern went to go investigate the Khajiit caravan, Karliah is being secretive as always. We're at Hollyfrost farm, just outside Windhelm's walls."  
  
Istha only hums in response and closes her eyes, already exhausted by the short conversation.  
  
"Tired?" Larjan asks. She makes some sort of vague nodding gesture with her head and hopes he catches it. "Sleep, then. You need to regain your strength."  
  
Warm breath spills over her forehead, and a pair of hesitant lips press to the side of her temple. She feels the weight of the bed shift as he uses it to help himself stand, and then his footsteps fade.  
  
"You better feed your Elf girlfriend some of this stew if you want that infection to go."  
  
"She's getting better," Larjan argues quietly. Istha thinks to herself that she should remind them that she's right here, but the warmth is making her drowsy and she is so tired...  
  
"You keep telling yourself that, boy."

  
  
..........................................................................................................................................

  
  
Istha awakes a second time under a very different roof. She is not alone this time - both Karliah and Esbern are out cold, looking relaxed for the first time since she woke up after Snow Veil Sanctum and thought they were trying to kill her.  
  
The fourth bed in the room is empty, the blankets disheveled and thrown aside. Istha sits up, slowly carefully. Someone has dressed her in a simple Nordic wool dress. After a long look to make sure Esbern is completely asleep, she undoes the strings holding the leather bodice around her waist, and pulls down the neckline.   
  
A thick, roping scar extends from below one side of her collarbone, between her breasts, and to the opposite hip. A triangular puncture on her other shoulder marks the location of Karliah's fateful arrow. To her relief both scars raised and pale but sealed - she doesn't fancy bleeding again as soon as she does anything more adventurous than take a walk.  
  
She rubs absently at smooth gray akin, feeling the occasional ridge beneath her fingertips and wondering when she became so accustomed to her body gaining injuries with each passing day. If her once-mother could see her now, she'd-  
  
Istha ends that thought abruptly. She laces her dress up and stands, pleased to feel only mild pain. It seems that Karliah has done her job well. She tiptoes past her sleeping companions and to the stone fireplace. There is a pile of logs to the side and she takes one off the top, sparking embers when she lays it in the hearth. Then she leaves the room, closing the door quietly behind her.   
  
She knows this hallway, has walked its stone length before. The throne room is cast into shadow, half the usual torches extinguished.  
  
She finds Larjan at the end where she expected, seated at the empty banquet table with Ulfric Stormcloak. Larjan's back is to her, his shoulders slumped and defeated. She has never seen him like this, and it unsettles her. Ulfric sits across from him, one hand clutching at an empty bottle of mead.  Their heads are bent close together and Ulfric's usually thunderous voice is now just the quiet rumble after a violent storm.  
  
"I'd wake up surrounded by broken plates and splinters of chairs. Hardly anyone in the castle would meet my gaze but Galmar."  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Years. Even now, I still-"  
  
Larjan stiffens suddenly, like he'd somehow detected her nearly soundless tread. She remembers belatedly her companion's new... condition, and realizes she'll have to try harder to sneak up on him. A moment later, Ulfric looks up as well.  
  
" _Dovahkiin_ ," he says, bowing his head by way of greeting. "How are you feeling?" She ignores him. Larjan doesn't meet her questioning gaze as she walks forward, but when he wraps an arm around her and presses his cheek to her ribcage, she knows it's not personal.  
  
"Ulfric," Istha returns. She rests her hand on Larjan's shoulder, her fingers brushing his neck and the stray blonde hairs that hang past his ears, and she notices Ulfric's eyes fix to the small contact. She hates the way he doesn't miss any small details. She hates the way he stores these details like records of war, to be pulled out later to better manipulate someone. She hates the way she doesn't quite blame Ulfric Stormcloak for the fact that life has turned him into a one-man army, quiet and cunning and deadly. But just because she doesn't blame him doesn't mean she trusts him. Istha hasn't forgotten that he lied to her and kept Larjan's escape a secret to keep her under control. And she's not willing to stay in his palace for much longer, now that she is healed, lest he never let them go.  
  
"You have any more of that?" Istha asks, gesturing to the bottles of drink both men clutch for comfort. Ulfric snorts and reaches beneath his bench.  
  
"You're in the Palace of Kings, little Elf," he says, slamming a bottle down on the table between them. Istha takes it in hand and sits beside Larjan."The entire city is threatened with starvation and wartime rations, and the orphans who sell deathbell in the streets go to bed hungry every night. But no one in the damned city goes thirsty. We have drink aplenty."  
  
"Maybe that's a sign you need to rethink your priorities," Istha mutters, popping her bottle open and taking a swig. The mead is watered down, but she's not drinking for the alcohol anyway.  
  
"I know very well where my priorities lie," Ulfric responds. "But tell me now, where do yours?"  
  
"We're sorry Jarl Ulfric," Larjan says, sounding far more respectful than Istha ever has. "But the dragons are our mission, moreso than your war. We've fallen in with the Blades, who seem to know a thing or two about dragonslaying, and hopefully they can show us the way to Alduin."  
  
"Very well, _Dovahkiin_. Try not to forget that your homeland is tearing itself apart the longer you take to hunt that overgrown lizard down."  
  
"And whose fault is that?" Istha challenges, the mead blurring the lines she sees between acceptable and unacceptable conversation, especially that held with a man with a volatile temper, and an army.  
  
"Peace, Istha," Larjan says quickly, laying a pale hand over her gray one. "The war isn't our business. We'll leave it to those whose it is."  
  
"What is your business, then? Is there a method to the madness, or are you taking on Thalmor Justiciars on a whim?"   
  
Istha huffs into her bottle and glares at Ulfric.  
  
"That was a provoked attack. The College is neutral ground."  
  
Larjan eyes her sideways.  
  
"It sounds like we have a lot to tell each other," he says finally.  
  
"Later," Istha says, with a not-so-subtle glance at the Jarl drinking with them. He doesn't look particularly thrilled about the snub, but she couldn't care less about his feelings after he lied to her.  
  
"To answer your question, at least partially," Larjan says to Ulfric, "I've found remnants of the old Blades order, and we may be able to find a way to deal with the dragon risings. After that... Somehow, we'll need to find a way to take down Alduin."  
  
"The Blades, aye?" Ulfric responds with a raised eyebrow. "Famous dragonslayers, and sworn enemies of the Thalmor. You'd be hard pressed to make better allies than them in times like these."  
  
"Meaning you, right?" Istha challenges. "You'd like to call yourself a better ally."  
  
"That's enough," Larjan declares, standing abruptly and pushing the bench backwards with the back of his knees."I'm sorry, Ulfric Stormcloak. Istha says things she doesn't mean when she's had too much to drink."  
  
"Screw you," Istha says, but doesn't resist the pull of his hand on her elbow. "I'm a Dunmer, I can't get drunk that easily. Your mead has about as much alcohol as river water does. Have you even tried sujama? I'd take you to the Gray Quarter right this instant, but the bartender is an asshole."  
  
"Wait!" Ulfric calls. They turn, find him standing alone in the dimly lit throne room. The sight is oddly sobering. "You'll stay for the celebration tonight, of course?"  
  
"What celebration?" Istha asks, just as Larjan demurely clasps his hands together and stares at his feet.  
  
"Our friend Larjan was busy while you were healing. Windhelm has had a, ah, serial killer problem for the last few months. Turns out the culprit was none other than my trusted court wizard, Wuunferth. We're having a feast now that Windhelm's is finally safe from murder. As the man who caught the Butcher, Larjan is the honoured guest. It would be a shame if you didn't stay."  
  
"Wuunferth? Damn that old man. Why did he have to go around killing people? I wanted to buy some more spellbooks," Istha mutters, turning on her heel and stalking away from Ulfric's lonely silhouette before she has time to do something stupid, like start sympathizing with him. "Empire's going to love hearing about both _Dovahkiins_ feasting with the Stormcloaks."  
  
"Since when do you care what the Empire thinks?" Larjan asks, sounding exasperated.  
  
"Since when are you so friendly with the Stormcloaks?"  
  
"Since the Empire did this to me!" Larjan snaps, and when he spins around and wrenches his tunic up his back, she's momentarily confused - and then she sees the foreboding silhouette of the Dominion's eagle. Larjan takes long, shuddering breaths, and the eagle's blackened wingspan ripples with his movement.   
  
All her anger dissipates with a single breath.  
  
"Oh, Larjan," Istha says softly, stepping forward and skimming her fingertips along the uninjured skin below the brand. "I... I can heal this, I'll make it better -"  
  
"It won't heal, Istha. She was careful about things like this."  
  
"Does it hurt?"   
  
There is a pause, longer than it should be.  
  
"No."  
  
She knows he is lying, but doesn't have the heart to press the matter. She steps around him as he pulls the tunic back down, hiding the burns shamefully. He leans into her gray palm as she reaches up to cup his face, and as he accepts her embrace without question she realizes that while his body has healed the worst of the damage, his mind has not.  
  
"I'm sorry I left you behind," Istha whispers. She feels him shrug in her arms.  
  
"They would have got you too."  
  
"Maybe. Maybe not," she argues, burying her face in the curve of his neck and curling her fingers in his hair. His breath hitches at the proximity, and she steps back, afraid she's done something wrong. However he continues to hold her forearms, absent-mindedly rubbing the pad of his thumb over the inside of her wrist. She notices that his own are scarred.   
  
"Forget it, Istha. I can't help the past, and neither can you. What matters now is the future, and Esbern and Delphine will aid us."  
  
Istha's eyes light up as she remembers the quest she had before the business with Ancano and the Eye of Magnus sent her to Windhelm instead.  
  
"Actually, Larjan, I have a lead too! I've managed to find the location of an Elder Scroll in Skyrim - it's supposed to be incredibly powerful and, well... It might also hold the answer to where I came from and why there are two of us."  
  
"Istha I'll admit that sounds interesting, but we have to focus on the dragons and defeating Alduin. We can't keep running off on unimportant quests while the world is in danger-"  
  
"But this is important! Paar-" Istha breaks off suddenly, choking on the name of her unlikely mentor. She suddenly realizes that she is uncertain how Larjan might react to the news that the Grandmaster of the Graybeards is none other than a dragon, and sways drunkenly with the fierce need to protect Paarthurnax.  
  
"Who? Who told you all this?"  
  
"I... I went back to the Graybeards. When you came up to return the Horn to them-"  
  
"I saw your gear. I waited for you all night."  
  
"I know, I'm sorry. By Azura, I don't think I've ever apologized this much in my life. I was scared and I ran away, and I met... I met the Grandmaster. Larjan, he's magnificent, and I saw things in the Time-Wound that you wouldn't believe, and he said I'd understand after I read the Elder Scroll, and-"  
  
Larjan is staring at her open-mouthed as she breaks off her sentence. Istha stares unseeingly past this head, her expression growing horrified.  
  
"Istha? Istha what is it? You look like you've seen a ghost!"  
  
"Oh no," she moans, covering her mouth with her hand and turning away from Larjan. "I'm going to fucking kill Mercer, I swear by Azura, oh _no_..."  
  
"What's going on?" Larjan demands, gripping her shoulders and spinning her back around to face him.  
  
"We have to go back to Riften," Istha says miserably. 

  
  
..............................................................................................................................

  
  
"Mercer Frey is far more dangerous than any sellsword or assassin," Karliah says, nervously lurking by a window overlooking the mountains surrounding Windhelm. She holds in her hands a glass arrow, spinning it around her fingers with an absent-minded disregard that makes Istha fear it will shatter in her grip.  
  
"He caught me by surprise," Istha answers, pacing furiously by the door. "It won't happen again."  
  
"You don't understand," Karliah insists. "He has the boons of a Daedric prince on his side. You can't hope to defeat him. If he catches wind that you're still alive, you won't see another sunrise."  
  
"And if we don't get back what he stole from me, all of Tamriel will stop existing. I'm not one for unnecessary heroic sacrifices, Karliah, in fact, I'd choose myself over others nine times out of ten. But this is something I have to do," Istha says with a pleading glance towards Larjan to help. But he remains silent, watching her with a frown.   
  
"How will you deal with the Thalmor?" Esbern asks. "Please, _Dovahkiin._ Your belongings can be replaced. Your life, not so much."  
  
"Esbern is right. I'll buy you a new bow myself," Karliah says. "I have an old Guild contract here in Windhelm. She may even be able to find us something of Ebony make, or Daedric. Nothing you could have had before is worth the risk of going after Mercer. Why do you think it took me twenty years to work up the courage to return to Skyrim?"  
  
"What is so important, Dragonborn? What could possibly be worth it?" Esbern asks.  
  
Istha chews her lip, risking a peek at Larjan. He remains irritatingly neutral on the situation. She knows he doesn't quite buy into the idea of an Elder Scroll, and without disclosing who Paarthurnax truly is, she will not be able to convince him. Nor does she want to reveal exactly what Septimus' tools are to Esbern and Karliah, who she doesn't yet trust.  
  
"A Dwemer artifact," Istha admits after a long time of silence, finally settlimg on a relatively harmless answer. "A key of sorts to a source of power that could mean the difference between dying and defeating Alduin. I won't leave it in Mercer's possession. I'm going and you can't stop me."  
  
"I'm coming with you," Larjan says, breaking his silence for the first time since Istha has raised the topic.  
  
"No," she says, shaking her head. "Esbern has a point. If we both die, all hope is lost. You should go with them. Find the secrets of your Blades."  
  
"You want to leave me again?" Larjan asks quietly, his pale eyes fixed on hers. He looks so sad and otherworldly then that she doesn't know how to answer for a while.  
  
"That's not fair of you to say, and you know it," she finally chokes out.  
  
"I do. And I'm still coming with you," he says. He tears his gaze away from hers with apparent difficulty, and looks back and forth between Karliah and Esbern's matching disapproving looks. "Esbern? Karliah? What will you do?"  
  
"I'm going to Winterhold," Karliah says. "And I'm going to think of a better way to get to Mercer. I want nothing to do with this suicide plan of yours."  
  
"I won't fight Mercer unless I have to," Istha says. "I don't think he'd see much importance in my belongings. With any luck, they'll be lying around the house he never seems to go in."  
  
"You're in no condition to fight anyone," Karliah mutters, and Istha crosses her arms over her chest like the warmth of the defensive gesture can somehow ward off the cold edge of the Dwarven blade she swears she can still feel cutting her open. "If anyone recognizes you in Riften, you're dead. They can't know you're alive."  
  
"Then I'd better hope I've learned a thing or two about remaining unseen from the Guild," Istha says grimly.

  
  
..........................................................................................................................

  
  
Istha lurks around the throne room for a while, overseeing preparations for the celebration feast Ulfric Stormcloak plans on throwing that night, and wonders if he's thought to invite all the citizens in his glorious city who huddle by the forge at night for warmth and scrounge for food in the back alleys of the Gray Quarter.  
  
Somehow she doesn't think he has.  
  
After a few minutes Galmar's glares burning holes into her back convince her she better take a walk before she blows something up, and she drags Larjan out of the palace for good measure too. He spends too much time whispering with the secretive Jarl, and though they both claim it to be therapeutic she mistrusts Ulfric's motives. Nor does she like the way Larjan wanders the halls with glazed eyes and faint grimaces at minor leaks.  
  
They leave their armour in the palace and don nondescript gray traveling cloaks with the hoods pulled over their heads, but it's hard to completely disguise Istha's gray skin. People see the two of them walking around the marketplace and put two and two together. Larjan takes her arm and tugs her down a snowy street away from the awed whispers and wide eyes. They pass Candlehearth's inviting warmth and duck into the building across the pavilion. Istha shakes the snow out of her hood and looks around, her eyes adjusting to the darkness to reveal dozens of whimsical displays.  
  
"Calixto's house of curiosities," Larjan says with a flourish of his injured hand. Istha tries not to look at the stumps that remain of his last three fingers.  
  
"You called?"  
  
She jumps as a rather oily voice distracts her from her staring, only to see that the source of the disturbance is just an olive-tonned Imperial man with an unnerving gaze.  
  
"Istha, meet Calixto. This is the man who helped me identify the Butcher and who really deserves the recognition I've been getting. Calixto, my travel companion, Istha."  
  
Istha gives the oily man a polite nod and slips past before he can do something stupid like try to shake her hand. She walks along the displays slowly as the two men talk, not really paying attention to anything until she comes to an old and battered book lying on a back shelf. She picks it up impulsively, feeling its surprising weight in her grip. With one hand she holds its spine, and the other cracks the brittle pages apart. Istha isn't sure what she expected, but she doesn't think it was a perfectly blank book.  
  
"Ah, the Book of Fate."  
  
Istha startles as Calixto appears at her shoulder, smiling down at the yellowed and damaged book she holds.  
  
"It's blank!" Larjan exclaims in surprise, craning his neck to take a look.  
  
"Really?" Calixto asks.  
  
"For me, as well," Istha says. "Must not be a very good Book of Fate."  
  
Calixto merely continues to smile, his eyes boring into her face.  
  
"It may be," Calixto suggests, speaking slowly as though the thought has just occurred to him, though the speech sounds rehearsed to Istha, "That you have no preset destiny, unlike the vast majority of Tamriel's inhabitants. Most mortals are predestined to a certain fate, but in a very few cases, the metaphorical, as well as the literal Book of Fate is blank. These individuals, alone among Tamrielites, have the ability to write their own story."  
  
"That can't be," Larjan says, shaking his head in perplexion. "We're destined to battle Alduin. We have less choice in our fates than the average person, not more!"  
  
"It may be, it may not be,"  Calixto says, remaining irritatingly mysterious and condescending. "There is another possible explanation... The fact that the pages appear blank may also sometimes indicate that the reader will soon die."  
  
Istha slams the book shut.  
  
"Thank you for your time," she says primly, shoving the useless old thing at Calixto and taking Larjan's hand instead. "But we really must be returning now."  
  
"Will you be coming to the feast?" Larjan asks Calixto, resisting Istha's best efforts to drag him away from the creepy man.  
  
"Ah, no," the Imperial hoarder says, blinking suddenly. "I'm afraid I've made other plans."  
  
"Oh," Larjan says, allowing himself to be pulled to the door. "Well, enjoy your dinner. You should check on your meat. It smells like it's going bad."  
  
"...Yes," Istha hears Calixto mutter as they leave the claustrophobic museum of oddities. "My meat."  
  
"He was creepy," Istha says once they're halfway up the avenue to the Palace of Kings, "And that book is a regular blank book."  
  
"It may be, it may not be," Larjan says in an eerily accurate impersonation of the Imperial, and in response Istha grabs a handful of snow off the ground and shoves it at his face.  
  
"Shut up," she says, trying to glare at him but finding that his answering smile makes her own lips curl up. They grin stupidly at each other in the middle of the street for a moment before he sobers.  
  
"I can't remember the last time I smiled like that," he says seriously, blinking those impossibly pale eyes at her as snow begins to clump to his eyelashes.  
  
"I think I..." Istha trails off as she scours her mind for memories of her time with Brelyna or the Thieves Guild. There has been laughter, but rarely, and always with a hint of guilt as though she is not allowed to enjoy the simple pleasures of life as long as dragons still attack Skyrim's people."I can't remember either," she admits.  
  
"You wanted to go back to the palace?"  
  
"Well, not particularly, no." Istha makes a grimace as they fall back into step. "But if Ulfric is forcing us to attend a feast, I want to look nice. No reason to give these racists any more excuse to call Dunmer dirty."  
  
"You're so pessimistic," Larjan comments, scratching at the beard that covers his jaw as though contemplating if a shave will make him look nice too. "It might be fun. I've never been to a feast."  
  
"I have. I suggest you lower your expectations immediately."  
  
Larjan sighs dramatically as they climb the steps up to the palace - a little slower so Istha doesn't strain herself. The throne room is transformed when they enter - there are now two rows of tables down the length of the hall, and a single, smaller table sits in front of the throne, overseeing the other two.  
  
"Places of honour, aye?" Larjan says, eyeing the five chairs at the head table. Istha shakes her head mournfully and pulls Larjan upstairs. They find Esbern pouring over a table covered in books and scrolls, his tea long since gone cold, and Karliah missing. There is, however, something in her place.  
  
"This is beautiful," Istha whispers, picking up the wickedly curved bow laid neatly on her bed. It comes alive at her touch, glowing red and radiating slight warmth. This is no child's toy - this is a deadly weapon made by someone well experienced with Daedric creations.  
  
"You don't even need arrows with that thing, you can just stab the end at someone," Larjan marvels. "May I hold it?"   
  
Istha passes it wordlessly and turns her attention to the neatly folded note on the bed.  
  
 _Istha -_  
 _I wish you better luck with Mercer than I ever had. May this bow serve you well. I apologize, not only for what happened at Snow Veil Sanctum, but also for leaving without a proper goodbye. It is not safe for me to linger. He has eyes everywhere._  
 _Shadows hide you,_  
 _Karliah._  
  
She tucks the note safely away and reaches for the other gift left on her bed - a red and white dress in the Nordic style. It seems that Ulfric wants to make it as easy as possible for his court to accept an Elven ally. She throws it back onto the bed with a sigh, assures Esbern that _yes, I will look at those scrolls later, I'm sure they're very interesting_ , and ventures off in search of a bathtub.  
  
The water is freezing, of course, to allow for maximum Nordic experience, and she spends more time lighting tiny fires in her palms then she does scrubbing the vestiges of travel from her hair and skin. Mercer's farewell aches duly, and she casts Heal until she's positively dizzy in an effort to dim the pain. It will take time for her wounds to heal properly - time she doesn't have.  
  
She's faced with further problems once she makes it out of the bathroom and behind a dressing screen. Her breastband is a challenge all on its own, as are the bandages, but then she can't raise one arm high enough to pull Ulfric's damned dress over her head, and has to pull it up her body with one hand.  
  
"Larjan," she calls out, stepping out from behind the screen with her laces in hand. "Tie me up?"  
  
He approaches her haltingly, apparently having difficulty recognizing her in a dress, and finally seems to get ahold of his wits long enough to step behind her and take the ends of the laces.  
  
"Since you asked nicely," he says softly, and she has to tell herself not to shiver as warm breath spills over the back of her neck. "Good?"  
  
"Perfect."  
  
He hasn't tied the laces tight enough, but it's not like she's going to complain. Her injuries aren't chafed this way, and she can move easier. Not that she expects something to happen at the feast, but... She, Larjan, and Ulfric are all assassination targets, and the Thalmor pride themselves on efficiency. it would be foolish not to be prepared now that the Stormcloak have dragged them into a game of political cat and mouse.   
  
...And she wouldn't mind seeing Ulfric's face when she waltzes into his celebration with a Daedric bow strapped to her back. Let them think she is a barbarian if they so insist on forcing her into that mental mold.  
  
"Are you done?" she asks Larjan, turning to face him. He's allowed to wear armour, of course, and sports his newly-polished Wolf Armour with quiet honour. Seeing it now, Istha can't help but think of the real wolf that lurks under Larjan's skin, and shakes her head to get rid of the image of blood dripping from his mouth. He nods.  
  
"Very well. Shall we?"  
  
"We shall."  
  
Istha's budding good mood vanishes when she and Larjan are split up in the throne room to sit on either side of Ulfric at the head table. Galmar Stone-Fist takes the other seat next to Larjan, thankfully, and the steward Jorlief quietly joins Istha's other side. At least he is tolerable.  
  
Ulfric makes a speech, of course, and gestures for Larjan to say a few words as well. Larjan declines, looking mildly panicked, and the food is brought out. Istha entertains herself by imagining flipping a meat pie into Ulfric's face and marching out the doors with the rest of the food, calling out for everyone in the Gray Quarter... _Except the bartender. Screw him._ But even the most detailed of revenge fantasies can't drown out the increasingly louder insults coming from down the hall. Rolff Stone-Fist's face reddens with each successive drink and the more flushed his cheeks grow, the more he comments on the various ways in which the Dunmer population negatively impacts Windhelm. When he dares to shout at Istha across the hall asking why she's still around if they already have the Nord hero they need, she has to clench her fists tightly to resist lobbing a fireball at his face.  
  
A chair suddenly scrapes back, raising the hairs on everyone's necks. The hall falls perfectly silent as Larjan stands on Ulfric's other side, shoulders shaking with rage.  
  
"Istha of House Telvanni is Dragonborn. Nord or not, she is one of the most formidable opponents I've ever had the chance to fight beside. She deserves your respect, and if you don't give it to her, you don't get mine."  
  
 _With a way with words like that, the boy should have become a bard_ , Istha thinks. She finds it hard to resist a flicker of admiration for the silence he stuns the hall into - but Rolff doesn't remain in shock long.   
  
"The Divines have lost their minds, giving us a lad this wet behind the ears for a hero. What'd you do boy, fall in love with the gray bitch? It's like you've never seen a real woman. She must be a real good fuck to deserve a speech like that," he sneers. The hall interrupts into shouts and hoots, but Istha hears none of them. She stands and pushes Larjan down into his chair with one deft, furious motion.   
  
"Shut up and stay down," she says. "My dignity, my fight." Then, louder so the whole hall can hear. "I'm even better in a fistfight than I am in bed, Rolff Stone-Skull!"  
  
That's a lie actually. She's never been in a fistfight.  
  
"Stone-Fist," Galmar corrects as Istha prowls around the table.  
  
"Really?" Istha mutters back. "Your dear brother hasn't heard the news."  
  
"No elf magic, no fancy Shouting, and no weapons," Rolff instructs, rolling his shoulders back and cracking his neck.  
  
"Understood," Istha says as the Nord's seated at the lower tables eagerly scramble to their feet to push them to the side and create room for a brawl. Of course, this is nothing more than entertainment to them. She glances over her shoulder at Ulfric, half-expecting him to intervene. He merely watches the scene with a curious gleam in his eyes, leaning forward with his chin in one hand. Beside him, Larjan is as tense as a drawn bowstring.  
  
Istha turns her attention back to Rolff, remembering the man as he was the first time she entered Windhelm and caught him harassing Suvaris Atheron. She knows there is no way she'll win this brawl if he lands a hit on her - he may be drunk and out of shape, but his weight alone will pack a heavy punch. She'll have to stay ahead of him and wear him down with smaller punches.  
  
"Beg for mercy and I'll go easy on you," Rolff taunts. Istha doesn't respond, choosing instead to throw a jab at the soft underside of his jaw. As predicted, the Nord man's arrogance allows her to catch him by surprise, but as his head snaps back and she slips past the resulting punches, she knows it won't be so easy from here. The hall is silent aside from the sound of shuffling and grunting, and the occasional shouted encouragement of "My money's on the big one!" After several minutes pass and Rolff still hasn't hit Istha, the spectators start growing restless.  
  
Istha grits her teeth, keenly aware that both Ulfric's and Larjan's gazes are boring into her back, but unable to tear her eyes away from Rolff's advancing form. The man's skull is even thicker than she thought, and though the combination of alcohol and her quick hits are making him sway, exhaustion is getting to her as well. _I rely far too much on magic and my bow_ , she thinks. _Luckily Alduin will probably never ask for a fistfight._  
  
Rolff swings randomly at her, and the punch grazes her torso as she turns away from it. A sharp pain shoots through her and makes her cry out, her hands flying to the healing wound beneath her clothes. _Damn Mercer and his enchanted sword!_  
  
She stumbles away, hunching her shoulders over as though to shield herself. There is shouting in the background, demands for Rolff to throw her to the ground, but all that is drowned out as the doors to the Palace of Kings fly open and bang against the walls.  
  
"My Jarl!" a young boy shouts, dressed in a stable hand's garb. "A dragon is attacking the farms!"  
  
Air suddenly wooshes past Istha's cheek and she flinches away, cursing the stable hand for distracting her from her brawl. But Larjan's hand is already there between her face and Rolff's fist. As she regains her balance, Larjan's fingers close on Rolff's knuckles and twist, sending the older Nord to his knees to avoid the torsion on his arm.  
  
"Brawl's over," Larjan tells Rolff flatly. Istha doesn't understand the stiffness in his stance until she sees his eyes blazing amber instead of the limpid silver-blue she knows.  
  
" _Larjan_ ," Istha warns urgently, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinches, and the amber color flickers.  
  
"I know. Get your armour," he says, and she runs out of the hall even though the suppressed panic she sees in Larjan is scaring her. If the stable hand's report is true, there is no time to waste. She'll deal with Rolff later.   
  
As she finds her repaired leather armour and fumbles with the buckles with scraped hands, only one thought repeats in her mind, pushing out all her previous concerns. This is the Western Watchtower and the Seven Thousand Steps all over again.  
  
 _I have to stay away from Larjan. Because once we kill that dragon, we're going to try to kill each other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT: This chapter is written in six different countries. I'm serious. It was also written entirely on a badly-lit tablet on a bumpy bus ride. Terrible idea. Never again.
> 
> Originally this chapter was supposed to include the trip to Riften as well, but then... Well, I realized that Larjan being Larjan, he'd hunt down the Butcher, and I couldn't ignore that part of his characterization just because I wanted to skip ahead to Riften. So I had to cut down what was getting to be an absurdly large chapter. Plus my writing app starts glitching after I reach about 4000 words in one file. So you'll get to read that from Larjan's point of view instead.
> 
> There are other things I want to say about this chapter, but it's 1 am where I am and I'm getting up at 5 30 for breakfast and the last leg of the journey, so I'll leave it at this. I'm just going to say that I'm glad you guys are still with me and I'm hella excited to continue Part 2!


	3. Windhelm Burns (and Balance Remains Elusive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unofficial chapter title is "Parapets."

Larjan knows he's made a mistake as soon as the whispers start. For a minute his mind struggles to catch up with his body - wasn't he sitting down behind the table? Yes, he was, beside Ulfric. And then Istha cried out in pain and it was all he could do not to transform right then and there, his instincts screaming defend the pack. He fights against the pressure in his ribcage, against his heart thumping desperately to stay ahead of the transformation's demands on his body. There were too many things happening at once - the boy bursting in through the doors yelling, Istha clutching at her abdomen and turning her head away, Rolff swinging his fist at her face.

He thrusts his good hand out and catches the blow in his palm, hardly feeling the weight of the strike over the pain shooting through his ribs. He reverses Rolff's momentum, twisting his elbow so the burly Nord is forced to his knees.

"Brawl's over," he says, breathing thinly through his mouth because the scent of fear in the hall is overpowering and the Wolf is intoxicated on it even if it's for a dragon and not for him. He tastes blood on his tongue and focuses on the disgust it inspires in his human self - anything to keep the Wolf at bay. He can't transform - not here, not now!

He took Aela's blood to regain control over himself, not to lose it. _He is not his father, he is not his dragons, he is not his father, he is not his dragons, he is not-_

He feels a hesitant touch on his arm and flinches as it shocks him out of synchronization with his Wolf. He remembers now. He is Larjan.

"Larjan," Istha says, echoing his thoughts. She appears to have forgotten whatever pain made her cry out and woke his pack instinct, and he forces himself to ignore her injuries - _just for now_ , he thinks. He needs her help.

"I know. Get your armour," he responds. She nods and disappears into the corridor off to the side, sprinting to their room for her armour.

"Did you see how far he jumped? Over the table like that?"

"I've never seen anyone move that fast. It was unnatural."

"Must be a Dragonborn thing."

He shouldn't have done that, even if it went against the Wolf's instincts. But he can't take back his interference. He looks down at Rolff Stone-Fist, curled up on the floor drunkenly muttering about his twisted arm, and has to take deep breaths to calm the Wolf.

"Are you ready, Dragonborn?" Esbern materializes beside him, sporting an impressive artillery of magicka potions.

Larjan groans and turns away from Rolff's squirming form. His hand goes to his hip, where his own and significantly less impressive daggers lie. Aela's Skyforge steel is more reputation than metal, and the Orcish dagger he looted from Shavari after she tried to kill him is nothing to boast of. He misses the weight of the two-handed sword he killed Mirmulnir and Sahloknir with, but he'll never be able to wield that again, nor will the Thalmor ever return it to him wrapped nicely with a velvet bow on top.

He did once kill a dragon with nothing but a rusty pickaxe and an unexpected alliance with two territorial giants - it's a good thing the bards haven't gotten ahold of that particular incident, or he'd literally never hear the end of it - but back then, he had the _Thu'um_. And with the Voice comes not just the ability to Shout, but also the cruel ambition in every dragon's nature and a slightly terrifying ability to ignore simple things like fear and pain in favour of charging in and killing things.

He's not so sure he can go up against a dragon the way he is now. There's also a nagging fear at the back of his mind that he won't be Dragonborn enough to devour the soul.

"Larjan?" Esbern questions again, and he snaps back to the present.

"We'd better see what we can do," Larjan responds absently. Istha hasn't reappeared yet, but he's relying on her. He'll have to somehow make sure that she's closer to the dragon when it dies than he is, so she takes the soul and the sudden loss of his dragonblood remains secret.

"Dragonborn Larjan."

Larjan turns to face Ulfric Stormcloak and is surprised to find the now armour-clad Jarl presenting him with a glass war axe.

"The Axe of Eastmarch," the older man explains. "I don't want to see you stabbing at a dragon with those toothpicks of yours."

"Thank you," Larjan says, taking the axe in his uninjured hand and examining the translucent planes with hesitant admiration. Vapours of ice waft off of it, revealing a powerful ice enchantment. "It would seem I'm yet again indebted to you."

"It would seem so," Ulfric Stormcloak agrees. "But we'll discuss that later. We have a dragon to slay."

They march out of the Palace of Kings only to be greeted with nature at its worst.

Almost immediately, Larjan loses sight of Ulfric Stormcloak and his ever present housecarl in the vicious blizzard that greets them. Larjan can still catch the scent of the Jarl's soap-smelling robes if he tries, but his mind is on other things. Through the haze of white snowflakes illuminated only by clouded moonlight and stubborn torches, he can see an orange glow spreading through the cities Eastern half, which can only mean one thing: _dragonfire._

A man stumbles into Larjan, fear-scent rolling off him in waves. Larjan catches him before he slips on Windhelm's slick cobblestone and realizes it's a city guard. Poor man must have never imagined he'd have to defend against a dragon when he signed up for work.

"I need to get onto the walls," Larjan shouts at the dazed guard, shaking his shoulders in hopes of snapping him out of his shock. "The city walls. How do I get up there?"

"Parapets," the guard gasps, crazed eyes focusing on a point past Larjan's forehead.

"Yes, parapets. I don't care what you call them, I just want to get on them. Can you show me?"

"Parapets," the guard responds in a vaguely agreeable tone, and sets off on another street at a quick pace. Larjan groans in frustration and runs after him even though he's not entirely sure the guard can understand anything through his panic. Even the Wolf can barely see more than ten pages in front of him through the snow, but by some miracle the guard locates a staircase and leads Larjan up onto the city walls.

"Parapets," the guard announces, turning to face Larjan just as a hideous shriek nearly bursts their eardrums. Larjan doesn't have time to draw the Axe of Eastmarch before a dark blur appears out of the snowstorm, wings spread wide and mouth open even wider. The panicked guard's screams fade as the dragon turns out of the dive with him between its teeth, and then he makes no more sound.

"Parapets," Larjan agrees faintly, suddenly very aware of his own mortality.

Somewhere else in the city he can hear a marshal calling for the city's archers to fire blindly at an enemy they cant see, and citizens crying out for water to extinguish the blazing marketplace before the fire spreads to the soot-covered Gray Quarter, but he reins the Wolf's senses in. _Focus_ , he tells himself. _You are the predator, the dragon is your prey._

_...Your very large, very firey, and very blessed in the dental arts prey. But prey, regardless._

Larjan breaks into a run along the parapets, ducking whenever he hears more screaming. His heart breaks for the people of Windhelm, but the best thing he can do for them is slay the dragon as quickly as possible. They will have to keep themselves alive until he succeeds.

A small squadron of crouching Stormcloak guards interrupts the snowy monotone. One of the figures half-rises as Larjan approaches, and an authoritative female voice calls out.

"Halt! Civilians off the parapets!"

Damn these people and their damn _parapets._

"I'm Dragonborn," Larjan answers, ducking past her outstretched palm and pressing his back to the wall with the other soldiers. "What's our strategy?"

"Er, very well, Dragonborn. To be frank our strategy right now is trying not to get killed. My soldiers have no experiences with these creatures."

"Trying not to get killed is a good start," Larjan says, keenly aware of the soldiers' eyes on him. Remain calm, he tells himself. If they see you panic, they will panic, and then Oblivion itself may as well come crashing down. "But the real goal is to kill the dragon. We can't do that at a distance, so I'm going to make it come to us. I need you all to distract it."

"By letting it eat us, I presume," a disgruntled man says. Larjan winces.

"That's one method, but I promise they're equally distracted by pointy things stabbing them," he answers, his hopes falling when he sees the snow-battered faces around him looking grim.

"Look, I don't need you to distract it for long. Just enough to give me some time to make the stupidest decision of my short and unfair life."

"And what's that?" the woman in charge asks sharply, her eyes narrowing at Larjan. "Jarl Ulfric will have my head if one of the Dragonborns dies on my watch."

"Then I'll adopt your strategy of trying not to die," Larjan retorts. Taking a deep breath, he stands up and climbs up onto the wall, holding the Axe of Eastmarch tightly in his good hand. He searches in his mind for the right words, and is relieved to find them intact. Another deep breath. Then -

_"Dov! Zeymah! Los hi zofaas wah krif Dovahkiin? Himdah ahrk luft zey!"_

It is a taunt, plain and simple. His voice holds no _Thu'um_ , and for a moment he thinks that an ordinary human shout won't be heard, but an answering roar of fury proves his suspicions wrong and nearly shatters his resolve.

_"Dovahkiin, pah! Zu'u los Viinturuth! Fos faas dreh Zu'u lost do joor?"_

The dragon lands heavily on the parapet, talons clicking against snowy stone and eyes glinting with malice. Instead of the usual pair of horns, Viinturuth's head is weighed down by an impressive crown-like structure of bone with thin leathery membrane stretched between each spike. Its alien beauty makes it no less deadly. 

Without the goading echoes of past _dov_ in his ears, Larjan is struck for the first time since Mirmulnir by how utterly suicidal it is to go up against a dragon. Luckily, Stormcloak soldiers are kept on a strict diet of mead and honour, and leap out yelling battlecries in the hopes of later having songs sung about their bravery. Larjan has never been more proud of his people for their stubborn refusal to acknowledge risk, passed down from generation to generation like a family heirloom. While Viinturuth deals with a face-full of Nordic steel, Larjan slips around the melee and clambers onto the _dovah's_ lowered flank. He has barely enough time to sheathe the Axe of Eastmarch and grab on before the dragon takes off again, deterred from landing on the parapets.

"Not going to die, not going to die," Larjan chants as Viinturuth's powerful wingstrokes raise them above Windhelm's sprawling buildings. From here, Larjan can see that the fire has entirely claimed the marketplace and has moved on to better pastures. _Hurry_ , he tells himself, and tears his gaze away from the sickening drop underneath Viinturuth's scaly body. He shifts his weight into a crouch and begins to crawl along the dragon's spine, finding handholds in spikes and scales dislodged by well placed arrows. Viinturuth's angry shriek tells Larjan that his presences has been noticed and isn't very appreciated.

The dragon suddenly folds its wings and dives, leaving Larjan to clutch at spikes and scream as they plummet, and then - because aerial acrobatics aren't enough to deal with - a fireball streaks past his ear, released from somewhere by the Khajiit caravan outside the city walls.

He knows only one person who would be stupid enough to throw fire at a dragon, and he curses her for choosing _now_ to involve herself.

Larjan grits his teeth as Viinturuth levels out to avoid splattering on the surface of Tamriel, and resumes his suicidal crawl forward. Viinturuth cranes its head over its shoulder and snaps its teeth experimentally in Larjan's direction. By now, Viinturuth's attention is entirely focused on dislodging him, and it seems not to realize how low and uncontrolled its flight is. Arrows find their mark in the frantically beating wings and Viinturuth careens to the side just as Larjan reaches the base of its neck.

He buries both daggers in the soft patch behind Viinturuth's bone crown and the dragon howls in pain. Larjan has just enough time to draw the Axe of Eastmarch and register a familiar scream before Viinturuth hits the expanse of ground in front of Windhelm's bridge - hard.

He's thrown clear of the dragon's back, only to have the creature roll over once with its momentum. His head hits the ground and he sees only blackness for a moment. When the world returns and he sees what's coming, it's already too late. All the breath rushes out of his lungs as a heavy wing pins him against the ground, and the Axe of Eastmarch drops out of his weak fingers and clatters uselessly out of reach.

He struggles underneath the injured wing's weight, unable to lift it off him. A tiny figure faces down Viinturuth's desperate last stand, dodging vicious bites and bouts of _Thu'um_.

" _Yol!_ " Istha responds, simultaneously thrusting an icespike down Viinturuth's throat. The dragon gives one last violent shudder, and two things happen at once - its head rears up and lifts Istha up into the air, throwing her into a high arc. At the same time its wings raise slightly, just enough for Larjan to roll out of the way before the draconian corpse falls limp for the very last time.

He scrambles to his feet, ignoring the throb in the back of his head where he smacked it against the ground and the stabbing pain that accompanies every gasping breath. Istha lies stretched out on the crumpled wreckage of the Khajiit tent she was thrown into. Larjan runs to her, his fear growing as he pulls her out of the debris and she remains as limp as a doll.

"Istha," he gasps, sitting in the snow and gathering her into his arms. "Istha, _no._ By the Nine, Istha, not now."

A thin trickle of blood from her nose streaks across her gray face, and he wipes it away before worming a hand past her armour and against her throat. He finds a pulse there, and nearly sobs in relief. Shiny Khajiit eyes watch curiously from afar, but do not come closer.

Behind them, Viinturuth begins to glow.

Thin tendrils of blinding light emerge from the dragon's glassy eyes and open mouth, the first whispers of a soul.

" _No,_ " Larjan begs, pushing his palm out as though he can somehow stop the inevitable. Viinturuth's soul probes at his fingers and streaks past, piercing Istha's chest and forehead and surrounding the two of them in a cocoon of searing light. Larjan presses Istha closer to his chest, crushing her against him like if he can make one person out of both of them, like he can share some of the soul's warmth.

A spectator would not be able to sat for certain which of them absorbs the light, only that it eventually ends and Viinturuth burns and the world is cold again.

Larjan sobs and waits for his _dovah_ to wake up, waits for the wave of anger to crash down over his head, waits for the murderous instinct to defeat another _dovah_ on his territory. Nothing happens, and he's never felt more hollow inside. He kisses Istha's forehead and tastes the salt of his tears on her skin, and he hates her.

He hates her so much, and it's still not enough.

"I'd never believe it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!"

He raises his head slowly and unwillingly, somehow feeling that relaxing his hold on Istha will make the grief more real. A group of Stormcloak guards watches nervously from a distance, many muttering about Viinturuth's skeleton. The Khajiit merchants have quite casually begun to rebuild their camp, seemingly unperturbed by the bones of the giant lizard a few paces away. Perhaps they've seen stranger things in their distant homeland.

Larjan struggles to his feet, throwing Istha limply over his shoulder, and approaches the Stormcloaks. They part in the middle, thinking he means to pass through them, but he shrugs Istha off his shoulder and hands her to the nearest soldier. Her head lolls over the stunned man's arm and he adjusts it despite himself.

"Take her to Quintus. The alchemist's apprentice," Larjan orders, and walks past them, past Viinturuth's bare skeleton, past the treeline beyond the road. His armour and weapons he buries in a snowdrift under a tree distinctly charred by lightning, and with a howl he sets himself free.

Politics and Divine-given powers mean nothing to the Wolf, and he relishes for as long as he can in the brutal simplicity of a hunt. When he's already taken down an elk by himself and ended the lives of several unfortunate forest creatures, he stumbles upon a pack of wolves feeding on a goat. These are ice wolves, far more vicious than their Southern cousins, but they relinquish their catch without question. The Wolf tears at the goat's flank despite already feeling gorged, simply because he _can_.

In the forest he is no longer Larjan the tortured, missing the Voice and half of his hand and his peace of mind as well. He is the Pale Wolf, drunk on power and liberty.

It's with a heavy heart that he finally allows the transformation to burn out and limps back to Windhelm as a man. Dawn is rising over the city, but instead of bringing hope for a new day, it merely gives the survivors more light by which to see the wreckage of their home. The dragonfire in the marketplace is still smoking faintly, as Larjan knows it will for many more hours.

The dead and the injured have been arranged in neat little rows in the courtyard in front of the Palace, Nord and Dunmer alike weeping over losses and huddling close to the braziers for warmth with glassy eyes. Larjan walks slowly down the rows of the dying, looking at every face and committing it to memory. Some of the bodies have entire families gathered around them, others have only one mourner, while many others have no one to come and identify them. In the back of his mind he thinks he should be revolted by the burns and the missing limbs, but all he can think about is how much longer the Thalmor would have drawn out the same damage, healing and hurting in a never-ending cycle.

He finds Ulfric at the very end of own of the rows, holding in his arms what remains of a tiny Nord girl. Her entire right half has been destroyed by dragonfire, and Larjan knows she's long dead before he even sits down.

"Sofie," Ulfric explains. "One of the orphans who would sell flowers by the graveyard. There won't be anyone coming by to identify her."

"I'm sorry," Larjan says eventually, having nothing else to say.

"If you're sorry for too many people you lost, you forget about the ones you can still save," Ulfric says softly. "It was a mistake I made as well."  
  
"With all respect, Jarl Ulfric, I disagree."

Ulfric Stormcloak laughs bitterly, glancing down at the macabre corpse in his arms with a fond expression that could only be described as fatherly.

"That's why they call you a hero, and me a tyrant," he says. His mood becomes serious quickly. "Go, Larjan Silver-Eyes. Forget Windhelm. We will endure, the way we always have. Maybe later your place, and Istha's, will be here. But for now, seek out that Alduin of yours. Make sure all of Tamriel's Sofies grow up to be beautiful young women who only die at the ripe age of seventy."

Larjan thinks he understands the unspoken message. His relationship with the strange Jarl is not very trustworthy, but since they both shared their experiences with Elenwen the Thalmor in stilted, pained half-sentences, there is a certain amount of respect between them. So Larjan gives Ulfric a curt nod and leaves him to cradle his dead street urchin - the only apology his pride knows how to give.

Larjan doesn't immediately seek Istha out - there will be time for that later, when the healers are done their work with Viintururth's aftermath. Instead, he takes a walk through the graveyard, his eyes passing over but not really seeing tiny piles of ash that must have bundles of wildflowers left for the dead - Sofie's stock, maybe. He ignores the guard at the door who squints as he passes and asks if there's fur coming out of his ears, and finds that he is not the only one to seek comfort in the Temple.

The other eight Divines that he knelt before in Solitude are absent, this being a temple dedicated solely to Talos. Larjan is not quite sure how to approach this ninth Divine, this deity he would have given up for peace not so long ago, when Lydia was at his side and Ulfric was just - as he himself had said - a distant tyrant. A sermon must have just ended, because two gray-robed figures move between groups of mourners, kneeling to offer consolation and insight. Larjan skirts around the edges, keeping his head down until he finally approaches the shrine. It stands in front of a towering statue of Talos.

The shrine itself is so small for something that was the tipping point in such a large and bloody war.

He hesitates before placing his hand on the shrine's top, feeling cold metal under the stumps of his fingers. _Hello Talos. I'm sorry for... For before. I didn't understand, but I'm trying to now. You know you're missing from the temple in Solitude, right? It seemed a little bit more empty without you, and that doesn't feel right._ Maybe it is just his imagination, but the metal seems to pulse warmth, like Talos himself is offering forgiveness.

"Can I help you?"

Larjan startles at the sudden appearance of the man at his shoulder, his hand flying off the shrine and to the daggers in his belt. When he sees that it is just one of the priests, he removes his hand hastily and turns his gaze down.

"Sorry, I scare easily. No, I was just... Praying."

"Of course. You must be the Dragonborn. I can see why you would scare... Your story is spreading. It has gained you much support in the East."

Larjan bites his lip, not knowing how to respond. He never asked to become some kind of martyr for the Stormcloaks, and can't say he really appreciates being turned into one. The priest seems to see that the subject makes him uncomfortable and speaks up again.

"You may ask for Talos' blessing if you so desire."

"What is it?" Larjan asks, looking back at the shrine.

"Courage. Peace. And I've heard rumours it strengthens the _Thu'um_ ," the priest says with a smile. Larjan stretches his hand out and lays it back over the top of the shrine, gripping it so hard his knuckles turn white.

_Please, Talos. If the battles I fight mean anything at all..._

Almost immediately he feels a rush of energy, warm and child-like and simultaneously grounded and wise. He swears he can smell permafrost and wildflowers and hear a lute strumming to the tune of victory. The senses fade, but the renewed energy in his limbs remains, like he's just woken up from a long and restful sleep, the kind he hasn't had since before the Beast Blood. ~~Since Elenwen~~.

But his _dov_ remain silent.

The priest coerces him into joining the other worshippers, who have since arranged themselves into a large circle. He takes a place in between Viola Giordano and Brunwulf Free-Winter, and at the priests' lead they join hands. He doesn't know how long they spend in that circle, holding tightly to each others' fingers and murmuring along with the priests with shut eyes and desperate hearts, but it takes him a moment to register the tap on his shoulder.

To his surprise he finds Istha, newly bandaged and dressed in her armour, only the faintest crust of blood on her nose betraying the night's activities. She looks distinctly uncomfortable in a place of worship that doesn't include her, and though he doesn't want to leave the serenity behind yet he acknowledges he'd want her to do the same for him in a Daedric shrine. He blinks in surprise at the daylight that greets him when they exit the temple.

"You're looking pretty good for someone who's spent more time gulping health potions than not in the last week," he says as he turns to Istha. She shrugs in a show of false modesty.

"Got a few cracked ribs from that throw Viinturuth gave me, but after a few months in Skyrim I hardly feel a thing," she says.

"Wish I could say the same," Larjan mutters, and then decides he had better change the subject. "Jarl Ulfric has given us permission to go to Riften. We can leave whenever you're ready."

"Ulfric? _Permission?_ " Istha scoffs. "I hope you didn't promise him anything in return, though I can't imagine how the conniving bastard would agree otherwise."

"I didn't promise anything, and he's not really all that bad," Larjan protests. "I think he saw what kind of destruction a single dragon could cause. He said he realized our places aren't in Windhelm. Come on. If you're healed enough to mouth off ten paces from a guard, you're healed enough for us to go on this quest of yours."

"That's the spirit. Oh! You'll never guess what I found while I was looking for you," Istha says, falling into step beside him.

"What?"

"My horse, Betso! Karliah said Mercer had probably killed him, but he must have undone his bindings somehow and slipped away. A carriage driver found him wandering and sold him to the stables here."

"You were looking for me in the stables? Gods, Istha, I thought you thought higher of me."

"Oh, shut up."

Larjan's smile fades as their walk through the city brings them past Rolff Stone-Fist, sitting on the steps in front of Candlehearth with a bottle in hand though it isn't even noon yet. He thinks for a moment that last night's brawl will resume, and wonders how to make sure Istha escapes with both her ribs and her dignity, but the Nord man only takes another swig of alcohol and glares at them over the glass rim.

"So what price are they giving you for Betso?" Larjan asks once they're past the heavy doors into Windhelm. Istha gives him an incredulous look.

"You can't possibly think I'm going to pay for my own horse," she says with a short, disbelieving laugh.

Larjan blinks.

"How else would you get him back?"

 

...................................................................................................................................................

 

"You're fucking crazy."

"Yes, you may have mentioned that a hundred or so times since we passed Darkwater," Istha says, seemingly unperturbed by Larjan's shock.

"Do you realize what you've done? You stole two horses from Ulfric Stormcloak's stables!"

"Technically I only stole one, and you're riding it. Betso was already mine," Istha says, frowning at him as though he's a child who can't understand a simple concept being explained to them. Larjan snorts. For all their high and mighty attitude, elves aren't nearly as wise and mature as they like to think they are. The one next to him is the living embodiment of childish carelessness.

"After everything Ulfric did for us," Larjan mutters.

His Dark Elf companion abruptly urges her stallion ahead of his and swings him to the side, blocking his path. The joking half-smile she's sported for the last few hours is gone.

"After everything Ulfric did for you, you mean," Istha says. "Don't be naive, Larjan. A Dunmer Dragonborn was all very good and well for him while there was nothing better, but now that he has you eating out of his hand, he won't care very much about me. By all means, get friendly with him. But don't you forget for one minute that he's using you."

"I do _not_ eat out of his hand," Larjan says, and in his mind the Wolf's hackles rise with his anger. "You just have a grudge against him for the Gray Quarter-"

"Don't talk about things you don't understand," Istha interrupts, and Larjan forgets to hold back the Wolf. It surges forward with a snarl, amber eyes aflame, and the horse beneath him bucks with a terrified whinny. Larjan pulls the reins tight and forces the Wolf back, panting against the combined effort of controlling his anger and staying on the panicked horse.

Istha has an arrow trained on his forehead before the claws have time to vanish in black smoke.

"You said you could control yourself," she accuses.

"And I just did," Larjan retorts, smoothing a hand along his steed's sweaty neck. He shies away slightly from his rider's touch, but at least doesn't try to buck him again.

"That didn't look like control to me. And I told you I'd kill you if you couldn't control it."

"Then kill me!" Larjan says with a snarl, urging his horse closer to Istha's Betso until they're side by side, so close that he can reach out and point the tip of her arrow at his forehead. "Kill me, Istha. Call it a mercy killing, because gods know I have nothing left."

"What are you talking about? Larjan, you're scaring me."

"The Thalmor took my mother, my housecarl, my livelihood!" Larjan seethes, wriggling the stumps of his fingers at her. "They broke my body and my mind and my soul. So kill me, Istha. And you can be the Last Dragonborn if it's what you want so badly, and then Ulfric can make a symbol out of you instead."

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of birdsong in the scraggly trees around them, invigorated by a day slightly sunnier than usual for this time of year. Istha and Larjan stare eye to eye, red looking at a muddled mixture of blue and gold. The tip of the arrow wavers.

"You have a fate," Istha says eventually, her voice shaky. "I've seen snatches of it in the Time-Wound, Larjan. This isn't where your story ends. You're a Dragonborn. You have the _Thu'um_ , and a fate, and the Thalmor can't take that away."

Larjan nearly tells her right then.

Instead he bites his tongue and digs his heels into his horse's flank and continues on the road without looking back at her. And that's the end of it.

About an hour later, she pulls up beside him and begins to tell him, slowly at first, of her travels since she fled High Hrothgar all those months ago. He clings to her story like it's a blanket keeping him warm, needing those memories to be his instead of the ones he has of cruel slanting eyes and golden skin and a _drip-drip-drip_ that still won't go away.

She confesses to being the one who buried his mother's corpse and stares straight ahead as tears trail down his cheeks, allowing him this small privacy. They remain quiet for a while, until she speaks of her return to High Hrothgar and the conversations held with the mysterious Grandmaster, Paarthurnax. From there she jumps to the Thieves Guild, and then back to the College, where he yelps - _you Shouted_ who _off a bridge?_ \- and then, at last, her discovery of his imprisonment, weeks late.

"There's only one thing I don't understand," Larjan says at the end, his forehead pulled into a thoughtful frown. "How do you control them?"

"Control who?"

"Your souls. The _dov_ you've killed," he says, taken aback by the puzzled look on her face. "With Viinturuth that makes what, three?"

"Yeah, three. What do you mean control?" she insists.

"Don't yours talk to you? Or sometimes give you a nudge in the right direction if you're in danger? Mine did. How do you get them to shut up?"

"Mine are pretty quiet, actually," Istha says, giving him a long look. He tells himself that her red eyes are squinted to ward against the sunlight reflecting blindingly off the expanse of white snow around them, and not from suspicion. "They give me advice sometimes, but not often. What, are yours giving you trouble?"

Larjan runs his tongue over his lips, suddenly finding them to be very dry.

"No," he responds. "No trouble."

"I've been meaning to ask," Istha says. "After Viinturuth knocked me unconscious, what happened? I know I woke up with his soul, but how did you resist the urge to kill me while I absorbed it? I was entirely defenceless."

"Oh!" Larjan says, his mind scrambling for lies to stitch together in some semblance of a story. "Yes, that. Well, you saw me pinned under Viinturuth's wing, right? Well, I didn't manage to get it off of me until he'd burned up, and by then you already had the soul and the urge had calmed down."

She buys it. Somehow, she actually buys his lie. He nearly punches himself.

"I see," Istha says, squinting off at the horizon thoughtfully. "How strange. Then you were closer to the dragon than I was, but I still absorbed the soul... I originally thought that the way the soul chooses us when we're both present was based on proximity, but that wouldn't make sense anymore. Maybe it's whoever deals the killing blow instead. Well, that could have gone much worse than it did."

"...Yeah," Larjan murmurs.

 

............................................................................................................................................................................

 

  
They reach Riften the next day, having broken their quick pace only enough to allow the horses much-deserved rest. Larjan peeks out at the city's walls from underneath the thieves' hood Istha has forced him to wear. He complained about it at first, saying he was no criminal, but she had snippily told him that in Riften, it pays to look like a criminal. She wears her own hood, a faded blue mage hood.

There is another reason they obscure their faces as well, an unspoken one they both know. Although the hold is Stormcloak-controlled, the Thalmor are still lurking in Riften's corners. And as Larjan and Istha are both wanted "traitors to the Empire," it wouldn't do to make their presence known.

 _In and out_ , Istha insists.

Larjan takes a back seat as she harasses the guard at the North gate to let them in without a tax, quietly observing her take the lead in her operation. Once they're in, she walks close to him, and he ducks his head slightly so they're more level. It's a vestigial gesture from his human days, he realizes when she starts speaking. Now with the Wolf's senses, he'd be able to hear her whispering clear as day from ten paces away.

"I want to hear the gossip around town before I do anything, see if they're saying anything about him. We'll stay the night at the Bee and Barb, and I'll break in tomorrow."

Larjan doesn't think Mercer seems like the kind of person that would allow his movements to be tracked by mere gossipers, from what he's heard from her and Karliah, but he keeps his doubts to himself and instead brings up the argument he and Istha have had all the way to Riften.

"You're not going in alone."

"Yes I am," Istha insists, elbowing him roughly as they cross a bridge and approach the inn.

"No, you're not. I'm coming, and that's final," Larjan says, but she ignores him completely and opens the door.

"Thank Azura, Sapphire must be in the Cistern," Istha breathes beside him, red eyes scanning every inch of the crowded tavern. Larjan's stomach coils slightly in fear when Talen-Jei's eyes flicker in recognition at their approach, but the Argonian mentions nothing of their previous encounter as Istha slips him gold for a room.

"Will that be all?" the innkeeper rasps, and Larjan is surprised to hear his Elf companion answer with a no.

"Two rabbit stews - and drinks as well," Istha says. "Did you mention a house speciality?"

Talen-Jei's grin is an unsettling sight to behold. Larjan makes a mental note to avoid amusing Argonians in the future.

"I didn't. But you did, and so you shall receive."

"I thought you wanted to stay low?" Larjan questions as they take a seat at a table to the side. He gives a start as he realizes it's the very same one he sat at with Talen-Jei, before he went charging off in search of the Thieves Guild.

"I do, but I want a hot meal more," Istha mutters. "Just... Trust me, all right?"

There's a strange light in her eyes. If he didn't know better, he'd say she's scared.

"All right," he says, and his gaze flickers down to the table between them. Had he continued to look at her, the Wolf might have seen the tiny flinch she makes. But he doesn't, and they sit quietly until Talen-Jei returns. "It's good stew," Larjan says between blowing over spoonfuls to cool them. "I'll give you that."

"I did live in Riften for a while," Istha says. "I know what to order."

Larjan gives a non-committal grunt in reply, focused only on silencing the growl in his stomach. His body's demands for food have grown, both with his recovery from the Thalmor's starvation and the Wolf's appetite. Once he finishes the stew, Istha pushes his tankard toward him. She's barely touched her own portions.

"Drink," she says. Her face is strangely sad, and Larjan has an urge to reach out and pull her into an embrace.

"It's probably not a good idea for me to be hungover tomorrow, if you want this to work," Larjan jokes, though he knows he won't actually have much trouble.

"Drink anyway," Istha says, picking up her own tankard. "With me. Please. I'm nervous."

Istha, admitting to being nervous? That's more than just unusual. Months ago, he might have laughed and said the dragons would come back before he'd see that. Now he needs to find a new expression.

"Fine," he says, picking the tankard up with the wrong hand and clinking it against hers. "To Skyrim, and good fortune."

"Skyrim, and good fortune," Istha echoes, taking a small sip. Larjan gulps a few mouthfuls and sets the tankard down. "Is that all, Larjan? And you call yourself a Nord?"

"Oh, shut up," he mutters, picking it up again and drinking what remains. He shows her the bottom of the tankard, dry aside from that single annoying drop he can never get, and sets it down again. "Happy?"

"Very," she says, but her face is still so sad and apologetic. Larjan frowns as the red of her eyes draws his attention. Around them, the tavern seems muted and distant. The lines of the walls behind her head blur and spin, and the Wolf curls his tail over his nose and goes to sleep.

Larjan doesn't quite understand until he sees her slip the tiny green bottle back into the folds of her mage robe. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, but he struggles to talk nonetheless, fighting against lethargy with his anger.

"You poisoned me," he says, aware of the words slurring together but unable to do anything about it. He has one final image of Istha sitting hunched over in her chair, giving him that meaningless look of regret, and then he tips sideways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it seems, the ultimate cure for writer's block with a Skyrim fanfiction is driving around rural Switzerland while listening to the soundtrack. It was perfect, I swear. Makes me wish I had been able to fit in longer setting descriptions into this chapter, but that aerial dragon battle took up a lot of space. 
> 
> I'm finally back home, which hopefully means more consistent updates. I really want to get back into the pace I had at the beginning of the series now that exams are over, my health is better, and writer's block is gonnnneeeeeee!
> 
> Thoughts on poor Larjan's many troubles? I promise things will eventually start looking up for him. Hopefully you're not getting tired of his internal struggles.


	4. With Good Reason

Rhythmic thumping sounds herald the arrival of the strangest creature to ever ascend The Bee and Barb's staircase: four legs struggling up the steps, two mouths muttering instructions - _watch his head, that step needs repairing_ \- and a third head lolling limply on Talen-Jei's shoulder.

Istha holds the doors apart as the Argonian innkeeper and Mjoll the Lioness - of course that woman would jump at an opportunity to lend her help _to make Riften a better place!_ \- make their way into the room she's paid for. Larjan hangs between them, his arms draped over their shoulders, his feet dragging along the wooden floor. The way they're carrying him, he looks like a criminal knocked out by guards, being taken to jail. She tries not to consider that too much.

"On the bed, please," Istha says, pulling aside the blankets as her two helpers manhandle Larjan onto the thin mattress. She thanks them for their aid as they step aside, allowing her to arrange Larjan's sprawled limbs more comfortably. She could have simply summoned a Frost Atronach to carry him up for her, but then, Nords and their grudge against magic...

Talen-Jei speaks as she wrestles with Larjan's boots, leaving him barefooted.

"Are you sure your friend is okay? He fell quite suddenly," the Argonian comments doubtfully.

"Yes, yes," Istha says cheerfully. "This always happens when he drinks. Silly Nord. I understand your house mixtures are very strong."

"They are," the innkeeper agrees, crossing his scaly arms over his tunic, "But he's had them before and was fine."

 _Oh, has he?_ Istha struggles to keep her clueless smile plastered on her face. _You should have checked that before you drugged him, s'wit._

"It must be the combination of exhaustion," Mjoll suggests, looking as fondly upon Larjan's sleeping face as she might on a child of hers. It makes Istha vaguely nauseous. What is it about the other Dragonborn that makes older woman instantly fawn? He is a man grown, by human standards at least.

"Yes, that must be it," Istha says brightly. "Thank you for your help, but I think he wouldn't be too comfortable sleeping in his armour, and he's shy about people he doesn't know well seeing his body..."

Well, it's not a complete lie. Istha trails off, looking at them expectantly. Luckily, the two Riften citizens catch on and excuse themselves, Talen-Jei still looking a little suspicious but mercifully departing with a final assurance that he is available should there be any trouble. _There won't be any trouble_ , Istha thinks, pulling out the tiny green vial tucked into the folds of the College robes she still wears under her armour.

A fast-acting stamina posion, not unlike the one she used on her once-family so long ago in Markarth. Her gut twists at the thought of Tsanvis and Enda, but she pushes away the blurry faces that swim in her memory. The past can lie in the past, she needs to worry about the present, and the future. And maybe stop making a habit out of drugging her travelling companions.

"It's for your own good," Istha mumbles to the still-unconscious Larjan, fumbling with the fastenings on his armour. So many heavy metal pieces! He'd never be able to match her silent tread with that weight. She dumps the armour in the chest at the foot of the bed, but leaves him his Skyforge dagger within reach. She doesn't think he realizes how attached he is to the damned thing, like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

Larjan's left arm hangs over the bed lifelessly as she closes the chest lid, and she picks it up. Her fingertips brush over the stumps of his last three fingers, and she winces at the feel of thick scar tissue. A golden healing spell flickers in her palm, but she knows all she can do for him at this point is soothe the pain. With a sigh she lays his arm over his stomach and brushes loose blond hair away from his face, cupping his stubbled cheek with a gentle gray hand.

Her Nord companion is restless even in drugged sleep, haunted relentlessly by nightmares. She looks away guiltily. She didn't give him a large enough dose, but she can't bring herself to pour any more poison down his throat. It will have to be enough to keep him out of the way for a few hours.

"I'm sorry I promised not to leave again," she says quietly, and stands. No more wasting time on her emotions.

Istha slips out of the room, locking it behind her. Not that it will stop anyone very determined, but it will buy Larjan a little bit of time if someone does coming looking for him. He won't be alone for long if everything goes to plan, so she's not particularly worried.

"I'm going to get a hangover cure from Elgrim," she says when Mjoll looks up from her meal questioningly. Apparently satisfied, the warrior woman turns back to her slighter companion, leaving Istha to depart without further questions. She keeps her hood up as she walks through Riften, weaving through ambling citizens. _There is an art to disappearing in plain sight,_ she thinks as she waltzes past the city guard chatting with the Talos priestess, _and I've nearly perfected it._

Riftweald Manor looks ordinary enough from the outside, though knowing Mercer it will be no easy stroll on the inside. After a surreptitious glance around, she leans down and examines the lock on the gate. It's new and worth its weight in gold, tough competition for her lockpicks. After the third one snaps in her hand and nearly takes out one of her eyes, she swears and climbs over the wall instead, struggling not to impale any part of her body on the sharp black spikes.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Istha falls to the ground at the sound of the angry male voice that catches her off-guard, but she rolls to her feet quickly enough, coming face to face with a giant balding Nord.

"Get out of my face, _Elf runt_ ," he growls, reaching for the sword at his hip. Istha dazes him with a quick sparks spell and opens up his throat with a dagger. He falls to his knees, the terror in his eyes at odds with the bloody smile she's carved into his neck, and she pushes him to the side. The wall's height hides him from the view of a casual observer from the street, and that will just have to be enough.

"Get out of mine," Istha retorts coldly. Her stomach twinges with a nearly-forgotten pain, and she presses a hand to her torso through her armour with a frown. However the feeling doesn't return and she pushes it out of mind.

She wipes the dagger on the furs wrapped around his hips, and hops up Mercer's stairs. There's a platform in front of the door she needs to enter, but there's no way she can reach unless... A quick examination of the ramp's locking mechanism gives her an idea. She draws her bow and sets her sights on the tiny latch she needs to hit. A breath in, a breath out. She releases the arrow.

It misses and buries itself in the wood right beside the latch.

With a groan, she loads another one, taking careful aim. She can't stop the tiny squeal of happiness that escapes her mouth as the ramp lowers, but she does calm herself before she creeps up to the platform. _Business requires a clear head_ , she reminds herself sternly. _Focus!_

The door is, of course, locked. She crouches down as a guard passes down the street, whistling obnoxiously to himself, and considers her supply of lockpicks. If only she could make the trip down to Tonila to buy more... But the haughty Redguard woman wouldn't think twice about handing her over to Mercer to explain why she is still very much alive and causing trouble in their territory.

Istha gets to work on the lock with a frustrated sigh, pressing her ear to the door to listen for the tumblers instead clicking and shifting into place. The lock clicks, and she eases the door open with trepidation. It makes no sound, mercifully. It seems the Guild's funds have been going into oiling Riftweald's door hinges.

"...Once was a woman, as fair as an evenin', of springtime in old Stros M'Kai..."

Istha freezes with her hand on the doorknob, but the manor's foyer is deserted. She closes the door behind her and examines the stacks of crates and sacks piled on either side of the small room. Carrots and other meaningless commodities greet her curiosity, and she moves on with disappointment. Her plan relies on Mercer having valuables in his house, not fresh produce!

She opens the double doors into a far larger room, only to find the source of the earlier singing. It seems Mercer took a page out of Anoriath's book and hired mercenaries of his own. Luckily the man that stands with his back to her, gazing mournfully at the far wall as he contemplates fair women, has no idea he's about to die. Istha creeps forward and peeks into the next room, but no one will be jumping out to aid him from there. She stands in the doorway of Mercer's bedroom and releases an arrow into the mercenary's back. He stumbles forward with a groan, bracing a hand against the wall and reaching for his weapon with the other, so she quickly shoots two more until it looks like he won't be getting up any time soon.

She turns away from the body and cautiously lifts up the lid to the ornate chest at the foot of the bed that looks like it hasn't been touched in weeks. There are a few gold coins at the bottom, stray gems, and a scroll, but nothing extraordinarily eye-catching. Istha frowns.

Where are these riches Mercer's supposed to be hiding? Surely he'll be suspicious if she steals back only her belongings. She needs to grab something else, something more noticeable, otherwise he might realize she still lives.

Once she creeps down the stairs, her fears are lightened a little. On a shelf right at the foot of the staircase stands a sparkling Dibella statue. Istha grins at the thought of Mercer worshipping Dibella - _Dibella, of all the Divines he could have chosen! That's the sex and beauty one, right? Oh, if only I could tell Cynric..._

Her smile fades as she finds another mercenary muttering to herself by a table laden with shiny silverware and cold fish. _Let's get rid of you_ , she thinks, reaching for her quiver. The first arrow catches the mercenary in the arm as she turns at the last minute, blocking her heart, and Istha curses as she loops her bow over her shoulder and readies a fire spell instead.

"Now ain't this a surprise," the woman hisses, pulling out an axe and stalking around the table.

"It was before you ruined it," Istha retorts, thrusting her palm out and letting her flames lick greedily at the advancing woman. With a howl, the mercenary lunges out of the way and swings the axe wildly, nearly catching Istha in the shoulder. Istha dodges the wild attacks and sends a frost spell at the mercenary's feet, hoping to freeze her feet to the floor. It works, and then Istha realizes the pounding footsteps are coming from a third person.

She barely avoids the mace that nearly crushes her skull in, and lobs a fireball square in the chest of this new attacker, but the third mercenary's eyes are red and watery with what is unmistakeably skooma. Istha's heart drops into her stomach as she backs away. Everyone knows skooma addicts don't feel fear or pain - or if they do, are too far gone to react to it the way any normal creature would. In a way, they're the perfect opponents - able to keep going literally until you hack them to pieces and they can't stand up and come after you.

Against this skooma-powered bear of a man, every single one of her weapons is useless. Destruction magic, daggers, even her beautiful new Daedric bow - useless. Istha flips the laden table in between her and the mercenary, buying enough time to run to the woman still frozen to the floor, shrieking threats. A quick dagger to the throat ends that, and Istha hefts the dead mercenary's axe, her dread growing.

She can barely lift this, let alone swing it. But crazy or not, the man's seen her face, and she can't risk fleeing the way her instincts scream at her to do. Maybe all he'll be able to tell Mercer is that a Dunmer female broke into his manor, but maybe he'll be able to give other details that set her apart from Karliah.

Only one option remains. Well, two, but she doesn't like to count getting killed as an option.

Istha grits her teeth and summons a Frost Atronach, hoping the icy monster can clobber the man enough to distract him so she can creep around and hack at his limbs from behind, but the mercenary seems to barely feel the Atronach's heavy fists on his head and shoulders and keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Istha. A few wild swings of the mace shatter her poor Atronach into useless chunks of ice, and he advances. Istha feels Viinturuth wake up inside her, feels the pressure of the disarming Shout she learned in Snow Veil Sanctum in her lungs, but she clamps her mouth shut and refuses to give in to it.

She can't let her identity slip out. Not yet, not if she can help it.

The mace nearly catches her in the ribcage, and she yelps as she darts back, jumping into a cabinet and having a cabbage fall on her head. She hefts her looted axe and brings it down on the mercenary's weapon arm as he buries his mace in the cabinet's wood.

Delight at her success lasts only a moment. Those red, watery eyes find her and narrow in anger. She must not have struck hard enough, because he barely seems to notice the gaping wound in his forearm as he wrenches the mace out of the ruined cabinet and strikes her leg.

Istha screams as she feels the bones splinter. The wave of pain nearly knocks her unconscious, but she blinks through the red haze and rolls out of the way of another vicious swing, the mace creating a huge dent in the floor where she'd been lying just a minute ago. She casts one last fearful look at the addict and crawls towards the gap in the floor where a flight of stairs leads down. There are crashes from upstairs as she falls down the stairs, jostling her shattered leg so badly that she opens her mouth to scream and only a tiny whisper comes out.

 _Heal yourself!_ her brain screams but as she waves her hand weakly towards her leg, she can barely concentrate long enough to summon a flicker of a healing spell. Instead, she lies spread-eagled on the basement floor, staring up at the wood above her and waiting for the mercenary to come and kill her. _Damn those stupid Dwemer artefacts._ Another crash sounds from above, followed by several grunts and then a strange ripping sound. Istha flinches and turns her head away from the staircase, closing her eyes so she doesn't see the end just yet.

Something warm and sticky lands on her face. Her eyes fly open as a second droplet joins the first on her forehead. One trembling hand reaches for her temple and comes away wet with blood. Istha's gaze darts back to the wooden rafters above her, where blood is dripping through a crack in the floorboards. Her mouth is dry with fear. The ripping sounds end, but the blood continues to drip and she struggles to shift out of the way. _Did the mercenary tear off his own arm? Is that what skooma does to people?_

There are footsteps on the stairs, and her breath hitches. She sees the legs first, then finely-crafted metal armour instead of rough studded work. Larjan's eyes are still bright amber, but the worry and shock on his face when he sees her is purely human.

"Gods, Istha," he says, kneeling next to her and brushing a finger over her leg. "You could have gotten yourself _killed_ , you _idiot_."

"Well I didn't," she mutters, not quite sure if she should thank him or smack him.

"Can this be healed?" he asks.

"Yeah, if we're quick," Istha says, closing her eyes in relief. "The mercenary. He's dead?"

"Very," Larjan says curtly, and from the glow of his eyes and the way he busies himself with the potions in his pack, she guesses he doesn't want to talk about it. She allows him to help her sit up and leans back against his chest as he gives her a potion to drink. Her leg itches as it begins to knit back together, but she resists the urge to scratch as she gives it a help along with her spells. After several potions and her entire magic reserve, an ugly scar remains where the mace struck but the leg seems usuable. She pokes at the damaged leather and supposes it will do for now.

"You're supposed to be passed out in the Bee and Barb for another few hours," Istha accuses.

"I guess werewolves need bigger doses," Larjan replies, rather non-plussed. "Can you stand?"

In response she does, though she needs to lean on him at first. Her leg feels stiff and funny, and she hobbles around the basement for a while in order to get her blood flowing properly again, while Larjan pokes in barrels and sacks. "Did you already find what you were looking for?"

Istha shakes her head.

"No, got chased around by that damned skooma addict. Come on, I don't think it's in here. This just looks like a pantry."

Stairs are another obstacle to overcome, but once they're at the top Larjan takes the lead anyway, blocking her view of the mercenary and pulling her to the door.

"Don't look, please," he says, not meeting her eyes as they leave the unrecognisable body behind them. "It's not exactly something I'm proud of."

"You saved my life," Istha responds. "That should be something to be proud of."

He says nothing more as they split up to search the house, and her frustration grows as her belongings are nowhere to be found. She pockets everything valuable she finds, and considers taking the damned Dibella statue and throwing it in the canal. She hopes Mercer is a devout worshipper and cries for days at the loss of his beloved shrine. Just as her hopes begin to dwindle, Larjan calls out. Istha pokes her head into the room she's searched three times already - only to see him pointing into an opened wardrobe. She joins him in staring down the flight of stairs hidden behind the wardrobe for a moment of silence.

"I got the idea from Delphine. The woman we're meeting later, she had a room hidden behind a false panel in her wardrobe too," he explains. Istha waits for him to make a comment about how she should have taken him with her in the first place, how she would have died without him, how she might have never found the secret staircase if he hadn't come.

But he doesn't, and as they descend down the stairs cautiously, Istha thinks to herself that Larjan is a much better person than she is.

"We're in the Ratways," Istha whispers in surprise, gazing at the unmistakeable architecture of Riften's infamous sewer system. Does the rest of the Guild know about this? She and Larjan creep through the tunnels nervously until they come to a larger room. She's about to step forward until she sees the strange pattern on the floor - and the tiny valves. "Wait-" she calls out, throwing an arm to the side to stop Larjan from proceeding. "Pressure plates. Fire, judging by the valves. Do you trust me?"

Larjan frowns.

"...You poisoned me less than two hours ago and you're asking if I trust you?"

"I thought you weren't angry about that?" Istha asks, throwing her arms up helplessly.

"Just because I'm not angry doesn't mean I'm _thrilled_ about it. And if you make a habit of it, I swear I'll throw you in the first river we come across," Larjan threatens. Istha shakes her head and continues anyway.

"See the dark areas? Don't step on those. See the light areas? These are safe. Well, as safe as you can get. If you somehow miss a step and the fire releases, don't worry about where to put your feet, just run. Got it?" she instructs. Larjan's forehead is creased with worry, but he nods nonetheless. "Unless you learned a Shout that protects you from fire?" she jokes.

He jolts back as though slapped.

"No," he says, looking at her with wide eyes. "Nothing like that."

"All right then," Istha says. "I'll go first. Don't start until I'm across, and watch where I put my feet, all right?"

She starts without waiting for him to agree, making sure everything in her pack is secure and taking that first awful step. Nothing blows up in her face, so she continues along her path, arms spread for balance, eyes seeking out the winding path through the trap. At long last she stands on the other side, and she turns, waiting for Larjan. She half expects him to mess up and come to her with burns to heal, but he makes it across safely, and she supposes grudgingly that he deserves far more credit than she gives him.

They find no other surprises in the tunnels other than the occasional trap, until they turn a corner and are greeted by a chorus of swinging blades.

"Lovely," Istha announces dryly. She squirms out of her pack and dumps it at Larjan's feet.

"What are you doing?" he demands. "There's way too many of them to run through, you'll get killed."

"Not going to run," Istha responds, laying on the ground and slowly pushing herself forward. She has a moment of doubt when she comes face-to-face with the first blade, but she presses herself closer to the ground and painstakingly inches her way forward. The blades whistle overtop her but don't reach far enough to cut. Halfway through there is an opening where she can stop to catch her breath, and when she looks back at Larjan he is pale with tension. She gives him an encouraging thumbs up and continues through the second part of the trap.

She finds the chain that turns off the swinging blades and tugs it with relish. The blades retract with a few last scrapes and the way is clear for Larjan to pass with their packs. Istha knows they're close when the tunnel slopes sharply downward and a single plain wooden door greets them at the end. Larjan notices the tripwire she would have ignored in her excitement, and once that particular nuisance is dealt with, they enter what seems to be Mercer's hideout.

Istha doesn't know where to start. There are bowls filled to the brim with gold and jewels, a glass sword radiating a powerful enchantment in a locked case, even a Dwarven chest like the one she practised on in the Cistern. She gets to work on that first, assuming correctly that's where her possessions are. She retrieves the crazy scholar's attunement sphere with a cry of delight and kisses the cool metal surface before handing it to Larjan to examine.

He seems a little perturbed by both the wealth surrounding them and her joyous reaction to it, but helps her clear the small room of utterly everything without complaint. She passes the sword to him once she gets it out of its case because swords confuse her, and he tests out a few practice swings before frowning and sheathing it.

"Are you done with your little revenge?" he asks as she gives the room one last look-over.

"Ideally, my little revenge would be Mercer's head on a spike, but this will have to do," Istha says. "Come on. It must be getting late now, and I don't want us to get caught as he comes home for dinner."

"House didn't look too lived in," Larjan responds doubtfully, but they hurry back through the tunnels and into Riftweald Manor nonetheless. The sun is setting as they leave through the same entrance Istha broke in through, but there is luckily no sign of Mercer, and the mercenary that greeted her in the yard is still lying quite undisturbed in the bushes.

Istha takes out her dagger and begins to carve out Mercer's door despite Larjan's warnings that they'd better hurry. At long last, she steps back and admires her handiwork - a stylized dagger pointing down in a circle.

"What is it?" Larjan asks at long last.

"A shadowmark, of sorts," Istha responds softly. "One not very well known. Karliah used it to sign her letters, and you should have seen the look on Mercer's face when he recognized it. This should push suspicion off of my survival."

"And onto her," Larjan points out.

"Karliah can handle herself," Istha answers, trotting down the ramp and pulling her hood up. "Come on, we should get going."

 

.....................................................................................................................................................................

 

They set up camp nearby Shor's Stone, after discovering the small village does not in fact have an inn. Istha grumbles a little bit but doesn't mind as much as she says she does, because this gives her an opportunity to do something she's been meaning to do since she and Larjan set out from Windhelm. While he pokes at the salmon strips cooking over the fire and seems disappointed that they're still too hot to eat every time, she roots around in her pack and finds a bottle of wine. It doesn't scream manliness and an absurd tolerance for cold quite like Nord mead does, but she doesn't think Larjan will mind too much. Besides, they should celebrate. They just _broke into Mercer Frey's house and got away with it._

"Want some?" she asks, holding it up so the peeling label faces him. Larjan simply raises an eyebrow.

"Is it poisoned?" he asks dryly. 

Istha lowers the wine and gives him the dirtiest look she can possibly muster. When he continues to stare her down, she uncorks the bottle with a sigh and takes a long swig. Larjan patiently waits until she swallows before reaching for the bottle. 

"Happy?" she asks as he tastes it and gives it an appreciative look. 

"Not particularly," he responds as he spears one of the salmon steaks with the tip of his dagger and begins to blow on it. Istha rolls her eyes and hefts her bag closer to him. His curiosity gets the best of him as she dumps a large pile of spellbooks by his knee.

"Where'd you get these?"

"Riften's court mage is a scatter-brained idiot," Istha says by way of an answer. "Anyway, that's not important. Look," she says, showing him the tiny portal to Oblivion in her hand. It grows and a conjured sword forms in her hand. "As dangerous as any real blade, but as light as a feather. I think you'd be able to wield it in your injured hand."

Larjan reaches for the hilt of the ethereal sword, his eyes wide with curiosity, but it flickers weakly and dissipates once it leaves her hand.

"What did I do wrong?" he asks, looking at Istha with a frown.

"That's the thing," Istha says. "You only borrow it from Oblivion, and it goes back if you lose concentration, or you sheathe it, or someone else takes it. If you want to wield it, you have to summon it yourself."

"Istha, I'm a Nord, I don't do magic-" Larjan protests.

"You're a Nord with half a sword hand," Istha responds, and she nearly apologizes for her harsh words when she sees the pain flash cross Larjan's face, but she pushes on. This is a conversation they need to have if he wants to get stronger. "You have to adapt. But it'll be okay. I've seen you use magic. Conjuration is only a little harder than the fire and the healing you can already do. Be glad you prefer swords, bows are far harder to conjure."

With a sigh he accepts the spellbook she places in his hand, though the look he gives the rune on the cover is anything but pleased.

"Just try," Istha whispers, and so he does.

They spar for an hour. They're on relatively even ground because Istha's held a sword about three times in her life and is not entirely sure what to do with the one they stole from Mercer's basement - Chillrend, says its inscription - and because Larjan is absolutely, completely, _stunningly_ horrid at Conjuration.

After the hundredth time that the summoned sword in his grip flickers and vanishes back into Oblivion, he throws his hands up in frustration and groans.

"I can't do it, Istha."

"Yes you can," she responds automatically, reaching to pick Chillrend up from the ground where it fell when he disarmed her. "The more you practice, the longer you'll be able to hold the summon and-"

"No, Istha. I appreciate the effort, and maybe it'll help the next time I'm in a tight spot. But I'm not like you. Magic makes my head hurt and this isn't something I'm going to be able to rely on in battle."

He plops himself down on a stump and pokes at the fire half-heartedly. Istha watches him for a moment, holding Chillrend limply in her hand, before she sighs and sits down beside him. She pulls him into a hug and grumbles something about not going soft on him, but he seems to understand.

"So what's the plan?" she asks eventually. He raises his right hand, wriggling the fingers at her.

"I train this arm. I relearn everything backwards. I try not to make a fool of myself. And we look for a sword that's light enough that I don't accidentally kill myself trying to control it, and I work my way to something decent."

"Sounds good to me," Istha says. "But you're at least going to try out a sparks spell."

She laughs at the groan that follows.

"Oh come on, enough with the magic. No more."

"Don't be such a wet blanket," Istha responds, bumping his shoulder with hers. "It's a good defence against mages. Mages are a pain to fight, and that's the easiest way to deal with them."

"Go to sleep and let me watch or else I'll deal with you," Larjan growls. She presses a kiss to his forehead in response and tries not to smirk at the way he freezes. She falls asleep quite quickly, exhausted by both the day's events and her body's work healing her leg. The last image she has is of Larjan sitting on his stump, poking at the fire with a faraway, sad look in his pale eyes. His long hair is dishevelled and barely tamed by a half-hearted ponytail, and there is dirt in his beard and he doesn't buckle his armour properly.

But she doesn't think she'd rather face the end of the world with anyone else.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fight scene with the skooma addict was tough to write, but I think I've waaaayyyy improved since I started writing this series. Aside from NaNoWriMo, this story's probably one of the best things I've ever done to just /write/.
> 
> I don't have much to say about this chapter. Probably because there are no twists thrown in. 
> 
> As always, thank you all for reading this far and being amazing people. <3 I hope the next chapters live up to your expectations, and that you find twenty dollars on the ground tomorrow and treat yourself to something unhealthy and delicious.


	5. Waking Nightmare

Larjan's Wolf wakes him sometime before sunrise, when there is only the faintest hint of a lightening sky over the Velothi Mountains. At first he thinks his restlessness means predators nearby, and he scouts the perimeter a short distance away from their camp, but neither his eyes nor his nose reveal any danger, and their horses still graze peacefully. Istha gladly takes his early awakening as a cue to steal a few moments of extra sleep, but only a little while later the sounds of Larjan packing force her out of her bedroll and into the waking world.

He ignores her grumbling as he kicks sand over the fire and gives his well-mannered horse an apple. Betso noses at his hand as well, and with a sigh Larjan pulls out another apple, figuring that it isn't fair to punish Istha's horse for her carelessness.

"Come on," he says, wiping off horse slobber and tying his bedroll behind the saddle. "Delphine must be pulling her hair out by now."

"May she find comfort in that," Istha mutters darkly, mounting Betso and taking the lead the way she likes to. Larjan is never sure how to feel about that - as a person he is content with letting someone else take the metaphorical reins. As a wolf, slightly less so.

The road through the hilly terrain in which Shor's Stone lies nestled weaves and folds on itself aimlessly, and they make little distance having to dismount and carefully lead their horses up and down paths too steep to ride on. Once the landscape begins to level out and they enter the volcanic plains that mark the border between the Rift and Eastmarch, Larjan begins to feel a little better - until they see the patrol coming their way. He and Istha edge their horses together subconsciously, both needing the comfort as the unmistakeable red-clad soldiers grow closer. In the middle of their line is a woman in tattered rags and bound hands. She stares at Larjan through matted bangs, a gaze as unnerving as it is bright blue. He remembers the sky above Helgen before Alduin began to rain fire on it and thinks it was about the same shade.

"This is none of your business, citizen," the soldier at the head of the column snaps when he catches Larjan looking too long.

"He is a son of Skyrim, Imperial," the prisoner says, her mouth twisting into a mockery of a smile. "Of course it's his business."

"Move along," another soldier says tonelessly, shrugging the bow off his shoulder and into his ready hands in a quiet warning.

Larjan casts his eyes to the thick mane of his horse, worrying at the worn leather of the reins. His stumps brush the material and he shivers, but makes no move to deviate from the steady path Istha has set. The only reason he knows she is nearly as disturbed as he is because of her rigid posture in the saddle.

"If you know any true sons or daughters of Skyrim, tell them Ulfric Stormcloak wants to see them-" the prisoner's voice is cut off with an abrupt thud and an angry reprimand, and Larjan forces himself not to look back as he hears the woman's muffled cry of pain.

He told Ulfric Stormcloak that he would not get involved in Skyrim's war as long as he had his own to wage against the dragons. And he cannot let himself regret that decision.

Larjan is distracted then by Istha dismounting and crouching at the side of the road. She stands then to show him the tiny purple spheres in her palm.

"What are these?" she asks, and he knows she's just trying to change the subject, to get their mind off of Helgen and the Imperial Legion and all things related, but he takes the bait nonetheless.

"Jazbay grapes," he says. "They're rare. My mother used to make trips to Eastmarch just for them, when she was younger. It got harder once we moved to the cabin..."

"Are they any good?"

"The grapes are good for magicka poisons, if I remember correctly," Larjan says. Then, frowning, he adds: "The leaves did the opposite, actually, depending on its preparation. Tricky ingredient."

Istha hums non-committally in response and plucks a few more, then remounts. Not long after, she points to the side and asks about the striped golden flowers growing in clumps through the road's paving stones.

"Dragon's tongue. Mother used them for treating burns."

And on it goes. He describes mora tapinella for her, then scaly pholiota, and then somehow she gets him into discussing which ingredients are common in which holds. At one point they begin arguing over which species of mountain flower is really the most useful, and she trails off midsentence as a mammoth stomps its way across the road. Larjan swears quietly as his eyes follow its path and spot both the raging bonfire and the carriage wreck on the side of the road. The giant is nowhere to be found, which only sets him more on edge. His stallion swings his head and neighs nervously, tugging at the reins. Larjan pats him on the neck and dismounts to read the note pinned to the signpost aloud.

_Attention citizenry:_   
_The giant here has been given leave to keep his camp. Please do NOT attempt to make trade, disrupt the mammoths, gawk at, or otherwise disturb the giant. Resting here is not advised._

"Who'd be stupid enough to make trade with a giant?" Istha mutters, casting her red gaze over the absolutely destroyed carriage and the decomposing horse still tethered to it.

"Who'd be stupid enough to make trade with a Stormcloak camp about to be ambushed by the Legion?" Larjan responds, referring to the incident that got them into Helgen to begin with. He picks his way through the wreckage to the furry corpse that lies by the horse, unmistakeably Khajiit. The catman's been dead for several days and the warmth from the underground steam has done little to slow down his deterioration, but Larjan thinks he doesn't resemble any of the merchants he's traded with. Moderately relived it isn't Kharjo or anyone else, he returns to Istha and their horses, only to freeze when he hears the roar.

"Istha," he warns, seeing her head snap to the source of the challenge and her face grow blank. "Istha, don't listen to it."

But he knows before she spurns Betso into action and races through the giant camp towards the hill above which the dragon circles that there's no way to fight the bloodlust. The urge to kill is inevitable, and the dragons inside are impossible to ignore. He remembers his own fight with Hunuthnok, and the sheer absurdity of running after a dragon with nothing but an incomplete set of armour and a rusty pickaxe.

He can't let her go off on her own. In Windhelm they had an entire city full of guards pumping arrows into the damned creature to bring it down. Here they're on their own.

"Istha!" he calls one more time, before swearing loudly and clambering back onto his own horse. The mammoth swings a heavy head in his direction and seems to glare at him - if mammoths are capable of glaring. And that's when the giant shows up to the party.

"No," Larjan tells himself. The giant raises his club threateningly and smashes a goat skull underneath its foot. When Larjan doesn't move away, the giant takes a few more steps forward and pounds the earth with the club, opening up a new crack for the underground steam to escape through. "Absolutely not."

But the dragon roars again, still circling over the peak of its hill like a vulture, and he hears Istha give a tiny cry of defiance, and he thinks to himself that if she is allowed to make stupid decisions that nearly get herself killed, then so is he. So he unsheathes Chillrend and spurns his horse into a gallop and races straight towards the furious giant, barely managing to duck under the swing of that damned club.

"You smell like a hundred hagravens and I've seen nicer loincloths on draugr!" he yells over his shoulder, and turns to look where he's going just in time to avoid the tree trunks the mammoth has for legs. It tosses its tusks in his direction and he swings Chillrend vaguely underneath it and yells some more. Now he has the giant's undivided attention. The trick now is not only to keep it, but to keep it at a distance.

The problem with giants is that they're difficult to motivate, but once they do decide that it would bring them immense pleasure to clobber you over the head, they move astonishingly fast. Larjan mutters a prayer to whichever Divine is in the mood to grant him a break from the trials of everyday life as  _Dovahkiin_ , and weaves his horse between boulders and over old mammoth bones in an effort to stay out of reach of that damned club.

By now, Istha is out of sight, but on the peak of the hill the dragon is breathing fire at something, so he leads the giant and its merry herd of mammoths up the sloping path to the side.

He leaps off his horse and barely registers it fleeing as he takes in the scene at the top of the hill. The dragon crash-lands in between him and Istha, its leathery wings peppered with arrows and too torn to fold up. It gnashes its teeth at him, nearly catching him in those deadly jaws, but Istha seems to be lobbing fireballs at its backside and those are hard to ignore. Larjan ducks to the side and takes shelter in the ribcage of a dead mammoth as the giant arrives in the clearing and decides that clubbing the dragon takes priority over clubbing a pesky human.

Larjan doesn't allow himself to celebrate the success of his plan, however, because he still has to get Istha out of this situation alive. He slips out of the ribcage and darts around the melee, trying to find her. He finds her slumped against a Word wall, and his heart falls as he realizes she must have gotten too close and been knocked unconscious by the Word of Power.

He starts towards her and stops just shy of the intimidating structure, because all of a sudden he can see the Word, can feel its glow drawing him in and reaching out thin tendrils of white-hot knowledge and he walks towards it as though in a trance because this is what he has wanted so desperately since waking up in the Ratway Warrens knowing his Voice was gone. This is it - confirmation that the past few months weren't a deluded dream. He may not be able to Shout, but he can still whisper.

Had the dragon's flailing tail not caught him in the stomach at that very moment, he might have kept walking, fallen unconscious as the Word made its home in his mind, and condemned both himself and Istha to death.

As it is, the blow throws him clear of the Word wall, and he staggers to his feet, clutching at Chillrend with two hands even though its grip is really only made for one. Both the giant and the dragon are drawing their last breaths, fighting weakly against each other. The giant succumbs to the dragon's gaping mouth, giving a hauntingly human-like scream as its teeth sink into his unprotected torso, and the dragon shakes the giant like a dog might shake a ragdoll.

It turns, at last, towards him, and Larjan can see centuries of dormant malice reflected in its eyes.

 _"Hi los Dovahkiin, med vorey, nuz hi dreh ni Tinvaak_ ," it hisses.

"Yes," Larjan says, too tired to try to search his mind for the dragon equivalent.

" _Fahvos?_ " the dragon asks, its voice low and rumbling, violence temporarily suppressed by curiosity. It crawls closer to him, dragging its ruined wings in the dust. Larjan waits until the dragon nearly reaches him and says one more desperate prayer to Talos before he grasps Chillrend and lurches forward. The dragon sees his attack coming just a moment too late, and howls in pain as the enchanted sword finds weakness in shattered scales and existing wounds. Its great head sinks to the ground beneath Larjan's blows, and he sees both respect and sadness in its gaze before the eyes close for the last time and it dies - also for the last time.

Larjan stands above it, leaning heavily on Chillrend and drawing gasping breaths as the familiar fire takes it from the inside out. He closes his eyes and hangs his head as the soul brushes against him, seeking identity, and leaves again. A small cry of pain draws his attention, and he turns his head in time to see Istha stumble to her feet in the whirlwind of light seeping into her. She is bleeding from her mouth and nose but pays no attention to anything else as she stares at Larjan disbelievingly. _She wasn't supposed to wake up!_

The last of the bright white light sinks into her and vanishes, and neither of them move.

Then -

"Explain."

He has no choice. So he does.

  
.....................................................................................................................................................................

  
He awakes to the sight of Istha hovering over him, red eyes sharp and focused. She backs off as he struggles to sit up, and the world returns in clarity. Her face has been cleaned of blood and dirt, and from the feeling of dampness on his, so has he.

"How long?" he asks, touching hesitant fingers to his forehead and wincing.

"Just a few minutes. A far cry from the hours that it took us in Bleak Falls," she responds, passing him a wine bottle. He takes it gladly and is moderately disappointed to find out that it's just water once it's in his mouth. He makes a face as he hands it back to her and groans. "I think it's getting easier for us to recover from the Word walls."

"If you call this easier," he responds, shutting his eyes to block out the receding headache.

"What's the Word?" she asks. He opens his eyes and squints at her.

"What?"

"The Word. What did you learn?"

Larjan hesitates for a moment. Trying to grasp the Word in his mind is like standing in a raging river and trying to grab at the salmon that leap through the rapids - it slips out of his grasp as soon as he thinks he has it. It takes a disturbingly long time before he can force out the word " _Fo_."

"Good," Istha says. "That's what I got from it too. What does it mean?"

"Frost."

"So you can understand it, and speak it, but you can't Shout it?" she asks. Larjan shakes his head wordlessly and slumps against the cool stone of the Word wall. "There's only one explanation for this," she announces after a moment. "Your Beast Blood."

His gaze snaps to hers in alarm and a protest is on his lips before she even finishes the sentence.

"Do you have any proof otherwise? It all makes sense," Istha says. "Your Voice vanished after you took the Blood. There's no way you could have known though, there's no precedent for this in history. It's not like there have been a great deal of Dragonborn werewolves."

Larjan just shakes his head, unable to buy into her theory. His gut feeling is telling him she's wrong, but it's not helpful enough to tell him what the right answer is.

"That's not it," he insists. "I would know if it was the Wolf. It's just not his fault."

They argue for another few minutes, but the discussion goes in circles until Larjan says they'd better pack up and continue. Larjan's heart is heavy as they depart from the Word wall, leaving yet another dragon skeleton in their wake. He thinks about all the ways the battle could have gone differently, all the things he could have done to prevent Istha from finding out. Now that she knows he finds himself resenting her even more, and he's still not sure what to make of her reaction and the way she insists its the Wolf's fault.

In a flash, he sees ~~Elenwen's~~ long golden fingers stroking the hilt of a tiny glittering knife, sees the corner of her mouth twitch upwards into a cruel smile.

"It was the Thalmor," he tells Istha, not meeting her eyes as they walk down the slope of the crest.

"But you said you Shouted your way out of the Embassy," Istha says. "And then fought another dragon. Or were you lying about that?"

He falls silent at her sharp, biting reply, but can't suppress the feeling that's she's wrong out of his mind. It's not the Wolf, though her explanation fits the timeline. Somehow, he knows this has something to do with Elenwen and the way she damaged him. They find their horses nosing at meagre clumps of grass a safe distance away, a small blessing.

"Istha," Larjan says. "You can't tell anyone. Not Ulfric, not Esbern, not Delphine."

She's quiet for a moment as they both mount their calmed steeds. Then,

"I know." Another long moment of silence broken only by birdsong and the steady _clip-clop_ of iron horseshoes plodding on cobblestone. "But we're going to fix it. We're going to get you your Voice back, and then we're both going to fight Alduin."

He doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. He rubs at his horse's neck absentmindedly, then turns his sights Northward. Belatedly, he realizes Istha is heading due West instead. He spurs his horse to follow her, and plants himself in her way.

"Where do you think you're going?" Larjan asks incredulously.

"We're going to Ivarstead," Istha responds, looking at him down the bridge of her nose as though he's quite mad to try to stop her progress.

"Ivarstead? No, that will add at least two days to our journey. Come on, we promised Esbern we'd return and journey to Riverwood to meet Delphine," Larjan argues. His worry for the older Breton woman grows as he remembers the scraps of the dossiers they managed to put together what seems like an era ago. The Thalmor will be even more alert for her now. "We had a plan!"

Istha shakes her head at him.

"Plans change, Larjan. I agreed to go along with your Blades quest, but that was before I knew you'd lost your Voice," she says, her voice as hard as stone. "Think about it. Don't get angry at me, just stop, and think. What do you think they're going to do when they find out you can't Shout anymore?"

"I..." Larjan trails off. "Gods, you're serious. You can't be. Esbern is a dragonlore expert, if anyone can help me relearn how to Shout -"

"I've got a better idea, now shush. If we ride hard we might be able to make it before midnight. Just trust me, all right?"

Larjan forces out a half-laugh, a bitter and mocking shade of true amusement. He runs a hand through his bedraggled hair, dislodging whatever few strands still remained bound at the back of his head.

"Trust you? Trust you, Istha? Funny, I remember you saying those exact same words right before you poisoned me."

"You're still mad at me for that?" Istha complains, throwing her hands up in the air. "It was a weak stamina poison. Wouldn't even have killed a rabbit. Let it go already. I did it for your own good and everything worked out in the end, so what's the harm?"

"You would have died without me," Larjan reminds her.

"Yes, I get that now. I made a mistake, thank you for saving my life, can we move on now?"

"Only if we're moving on to Windhelm."

"Don't be absurd, Larjan. Can we forget about the poisoning incident and start over fresh without you puffing up every time I ask you trust me?" Istha says, and when she fixes him with her red gaze, unusually warm and pleading, he nearly gives in. But he remembers that Istha is good at sprinkling the truth with little lies to get what she wants, and he gives his head a minute shake.

"I've forgiven you, but I won't forget that easily," he warns her icily. "Can you at least tell me what's in Ivarstead?"

"The beginning of the Seven Thousand Steps?"

He's taken aback for a moment, for the first time considering if the Graybeards have a solution to this silence that plagues his mind.

"That's a better idea than I was expecting from you," he admits grudgingly. "But it doesn't change the fact that we had a plan with Esbern, and travelling up to High Hrothgar will delay us even further."

"We'll send a letter from Ivarstead," Istha says dismissively. "I understand that you want the Blades to help us find out more about Alduin, but if you can't Shout... Larjan, we're getting you your Voice back. I'm not going up against Alduin alone."

Larjan grits his teeth and squints up at the sky, where the sun is already only a few hours away from midday.

"Larjan," Istha says again. He ignores her, still weighing his options and wishing she'd never woken up in time to absorb the soul. After Viinturuth, he should have known he wouldn't get lucky twice. "Larjan. Look at me." Grudgingly, he turns his head towards her. "After I left you and Lydia at High Hrothgar, I tried to deny being Dragonborn. I fled to the College and thought that if I buried myself in studies and never spoke, I'd be able to ignore fate. And it nearly worked, I nearly forgot my Voice. But Paarthurnax brought it out of me again, and he'll bring it out of you too."

"Paarthurnax?" Larjan asks, his curiosity rousing. He's heard that name before, mentioned in passing as the mysterious and isolated -

"Grandmaster of the Graybeards," Istha says. For the first time, he thinks he detects a strange sort of fear in her voice. "I'm not sure you'd... Like him very much, but... If he can't wake your dragons, then I don't think anything can."

"Okay," Larjan says dully. He nudges his horse with his heel until he finally persuades him to turn his attention away from the clump of Dragon's Tongue he's been nibbling on while he and Istha rowed, and they turn their sights to the Throat of the World wreathed in fog and cloud. "Let's follow this plan of yours. Let's go."

 

.......................................................................................................................................................................

 

Ivarstead at night is only moderately less exciting than Ivarstead by day, which is to say, not exciting at all.

Larjan dismounts by Vilemyr Inn under the watchful eye of a nearby guard, and almost immediately nearly steps on a chicken. The guard rushes forward and gathers the wayward fowl into his arms, chastising Larjan for endangering Ivarstead's already meagre livelihood as he does. Istha only snickers at the exchange, and Larjan has a strong urge to push her off her beloved Betso. He has no more patience for chickens or snarky Elves who think they can do whatever they want. Wilhelm must have already gone to sleep, because it takes several impatient knocks for someone to finally open the door. Instead of the innkeeper, it's the pretty bard who answers, still rubbing sleep from her eyes as she steps back to allow them inside.

"Hope you're not expecting a meal at this hour," she mutters. "Because I'm not heating one for you. Take the last room on the left. Or the first. Doesn't really matter, they're both empty. Just leave the gold on Wilhelm's counter and he'll take care of it in the morning."

"Good night," Larjan says as he pokes his head into the latter of the rooms she suggested. The only response he gets is a tired grunt. He dumps his pack on the floor and sits on the bed with a sigh, already aching for a long sleep after so many hours of riding with few breaks. Istha lurks in the doorway as he begins to undo the many straps and buckles of his armour, discarding bits and pieces of it on the floor. As he lifts the breastplate over his head and turns it around to look at the wolf carving on its front, a strange thought occurs to him.

_A wolf on the outside to cage the wolf on the inside._

He snorts at that and continues stripping to his breeches and tunic. Istha still leans in the doorway as though waiting for permission to enter. He lets her wait, he's still cross. After he stretches out on the mattress with a quiet groan, he finally looks at her.

"What are you doing there?"

"Nothing," she says. After another moment, she turns with a huff and he hears her pack thud against the floor in the next room. He thinks to himself that she might have wanted to share the room, the way they have gotten used to doing in larger cities both to save money, body heat and the inn's occupancy. But in quiet Ivarstead, there is no reason for them to do so, and he's not exactly in the mood to cuddle.

Exhausted by the journey, he sleeps easily, only to awake in Whiterun Hold.

The setting sun streaks the sky with soft pinks and oranges - warm, floral colours that aren't seen too often in Skyrim's gray landscape. Larjan blinks at the light that falls onto his face and wonders vaguely why it doesn't feel warm. He tries to find some sort of appreciation for the simple beauty of a sunset, but all he feels is a deep sense of foreboding. Around him, the world has come to a peaceful standstill - there is the sound of birds chirping and the soft crackle of the campfire beside him and the river's quiet rumble a few paces away. He shifts closer to the fire, seeking warmth and still not finding it.

_Drip-drip-drip._

It begins to rain, lightly at first, even though there are no clouds overhead. Larjan stands and stretches his hands out, palms raised towards Sovngarde. Droplets collect on his skin and plaster his blond hair to his head. He reaches with one of the hands to brush a lock of wet hair out of his eyes, only to have the hand jerk back when it reaches the end of its chain.

There are manacles on his wrists.

He doesn't know how he didn't see them before, but their oppressive weight is unmistakeable now. He stares at the golden metal chaining his hands together with growing horror, and the ground begins to ripple underneath his feet. Whiterun's rolling plains dotted with rocky outcroppings as though sprinkled carelessly by a giant hand morph and melt together, until he stands on cold-hard stone stretching as far as the eye can see in every direction. The only other feature that remains is the river, bubbling happily away as though everything hasn't gone completely wrong.

He knows this stone. He's vomited blood on it, felt it steal away the warmth in his very bones, kicked at it with desperate and dangling feet because there was nothing else for him to kick.

A sudden female scream cuts through his thoughts, impossibly loud. He resists the urge to cup his chained hands over his ears and spins, searching for the source and already knowing what he will find. 

Lydia stands a few paces away, her hands at her sides and her posture a little bit slumped, as though she's one of those corpses necromancers hide behind. Her face is blank and lifeless but her mouth is still open and shrieking, and Larjan finds that he wants to shriek as well. The arrow wound in the centre of her forehead is tiny and dark red-brown, and blood trails on either side of her nose and down her face to her chin. It stays there, taunting and unaffected by the rain pouring on them.

"Lydia!" he screams, trying to run to her, but he can't seem to find his balance properly with his hands chained together and the more he stumbles on his way to her, the further the distance between them seems to grow. She melts into J'aesire, and then the Imperial prisoner whose name he will never know, and then collapses into a pile of ash. Larjan trips over a headsman's chopping block that has appeared out of nowhere, and far above a black shadow glides across the pink sky, roaring incomprehensible words that fall with the rain and splatter on the wet stone. Arngeir appears, watching Larjan sombrely with his hands clasped together in front of his robes.

"Now we will see how quickly you can master a new Shout," the Graybeard says, gesturing unhelpfully to the glowing words all around them, gouged into the stone as though with claws and radiating cold knowledge.

"I can't," Larjan says, shaking his head and trying to crawl away. "I can't, I'm sorry, I can't do it."

He turns his back on Arngeir, who bows his hooded head and radiates disapproval. Above, Alduin circles once more, but at the height at which he flies he could be mistaken for a vulture circling over a corpse. Larjan's chains clink together on the stone as he crawls, ignoring the sharp edges that dig into his palms and knees.

For a moment he thinks he hears something over the clank of metal links, and he freezes, one hand half-extended in his desperate bid for escape. Footsteps, calm and measured. Long strides belonging to someone in no hurry to get to him, because she knows he won't be going anywhere on her watch. Larjan chokes on a sob, pulling his extended hand back towards him and cradling the bleeding hand to his chest.

The pouring rain turns to blood - sticky and heavy and the wrong kind of warmth, and as it _drip-drip-drips_ around him he shrinks into himself. He sits on his ankles and rocks back and forth, running a mental list of all the Words of Power he knows - _Fus, Ro, Wuld, Feim, Kaan, Yol, Fo_ \- and on _Yol_ , his back burns.

He screams in agony as he feels the brand press to his skin, marking him with the Dominion's eagle, and in unison with his scream, a wolf howls with pain and anger.

Larjan jolts awake, trying to scream and finding that he has no breath for it because he is gasping like he's run for days. He sits up, finding himself tangled in his blankets and clawing at the furs with one and a half hands. A magelight sparks to life and hovers by the ceiling of the inn, causing Larjan to flinch. By its harsh blue light, he sees the slender hand reaching out to him, fingers curling around his wrist where the manacle scars are and tugging gently.

"Larjan! Larjan, try to breathe. It's okay. It's me, Istha."

Her face is cast into deep contrast by the magelight, all hard planes and sharp angles and unmistakeably Elven. He struggles not to flinch as she comes closer, settling next to him and cupping his cheek with one hand. It's warm and once he's sure it won't hurt him he leans into it greedily.

"Istha," he whispers, feeling his mouth shape the consonants and vowels. Yes, this is _Istha_. ~~Not Elenwen~~. This isn't one of her tricks because the Wolf is wide awake and all he smells is Istha. Larjan stretches his arms out, reaching for her, and she leans closer, close enough for him to grab and pull into his lap. He senses her surprise but is glad she doesn't retreat, only settles more comfortably with her legs folded on either side of his thighs and wraps her arms around him. He leans his head against her chest, hearing her heartbeat over the pounding in his eardrums and slowly relaxes as he breathes her familiar scent in. It calms the Wolf, and in turn his own thoughts.

"Come on, Larjan," she says. "You need to go back to sleep so we can climb the Steps tomorrow, and you're not gonna do it in this position."

He grasps blindly at the folds of the mage robes she sleeps in, silently pleading for her to stay. Instead, she sighs and compromises, pushing him down and curling against his side with her head on his chest and one arm slung protectively across his stomach. Larjan shifts so he faces her and the top of her head bumps up against his chin as they rearrange stray limbs. The loneliness he feels is overpowering, and he doesn't know how he could have gone to bed alone just hours earlier. It doesn't quite go away with Istha's presence, but she helps a little.

"I haven't had nightmares since I took the Blood," he whispers. "This was the first. The Wolf usually keeps me restless enough that I don't dream about... Istha, I saw Lydia again. And Alduin, and... El - the woman who tortured me. _Gods_ , Istha, it was terrible."

"Shhh," Istha responds, weaving a hand through the tangles of his long hair and tugging at the sweat-matted strands. "Don't think about it. Sleep. Trust the Wolf to let you."

Slowly, the racing thump of his heartbeat calms. Here in Ivarstead, the influence of the Thalmor seems far away.

"This doesn't change anything," he says. "I'm still mad at you. You're stubborn and absurd and unreasonable and sometimes I'd rather deal with Alduin than you."

Her torso shakes minutely under his arm, as though she's suppressing laughter. There is no other answer. He feels her breath spill across his collarbones, warm and slow and reassuring, and he closes his eyes.

And somehow, with her by his side this time, he sleeps.

 

....................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Breakfast is a hurried and awkward affair - as soon as Wilhelm wakes and realizes the legendary Dragonborns are staying in his inn, he insists on throwing together _'the most lavish meal they'll have had in weeks!'_ and scarcely a half-hour later, the entire town knows they're here. The bard, now fully awake and overjoyed at the amount of people that crowd into the inn, fetches her lute and bursts into a rousing rendition of The Dragonborns Come, slightly altered to include the both of them.

"The Dragonborn comes! With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art," she sings, causing Larjan to wince. He's still on edge from last night, and all this attention is doing nothing to calm him. He tries to inhale breakfast as fast as he can, disliking the curious stares no one even bothers to disguise and the absurd whispers that his Wolf can't block out - _I hear he took on a dragon form and burned the entire Embassy down to the ground_ \- only to have an argument break out before they can leave.

"Is it silly of me to wish a dragon would come to Ivarstead? Maybe just a little one that doesn't know how to breathe fire. It's so boring here, a dragon might make things more exciting! And I wouldn't mind seeing Dragonborn heroes more often."

"What, and drive off even more travellers? What in Oblivion is your head filled with?"

"You ignorant wretch, a dragon attacked Morthal a few weeks ago and nearly destroyed the entire thing. Where were your Dragonborn heroes then?"

A tankard clatters loudly to the ground as Istha steps up onto the bench and places a foot on the table. Her wicked-looking bow is at odds with the rest of the homely inn, made even more menacing by the arrow she has notched and ready. _Oh no you don't_ , Larjan thinks, already standing and reaching for the arm that has the arrow pulled back.

"Say that again, you _s'wit_ ," she hisses, eyes narrowed and shoulders shaking with anger.

Wilhelm begins to protest loudly - _no weapons at the breakfast table, not in my inn please and thank you!_ \- and it's all Larjan can do to drag Istha and their belongings outside before she can cause irreparable damage to an innocent villager over a few angrily-spoken words.

"Don't listen to it," he tells Istha as she fumes quietly beside him. "They did that in Whiterun too, when I returned without Lydia. They don't understand that we can't be everywhere at once. The fear makes them irrational, and that's just the way it is."

"How can you just ignore it?" Istha says, stomping along the cobblestone street with more viciousness than is really necessary. "Doesn't it make you angry?"

"No," Larjan answers quietly, staring at the ground underneath his feet. "Just makes me sad."

Thankfully, the trip up the Steps cools Istha down, in more ways than one. She's shivering by the time they've made it to the fourth emblem, where a fur-clad Nord man pauses his meditation only long enough to give them a curt nod.

They deal with a total of three trolls this time, two of them simultaneously. Far more than the previous times either of them made this trek up the Steps, but then, the chill of winter is to blame for that. A few wolf packs watch them curiously from afar, but the presence of Larjan's own Wolf, even only inside of him, is enough for them to respectfully back away and allow them passage.

They reach High Hrothgar late that evening, exhausted but somehow none the worse for wear. Istha started limping about an hour ago, and Larjan could only do so much to relieve the weight she had to put on the leg Mercer's mercenary shattered. Up until now their dependence on the horses hasn't required her to put much weight on the leg Mercer's mercenary shattered, but there's no way to ride up the Steps. Larjan thanks his lucky stars that no more dragons swoop down to challenge them as he raises the heavy knocker on High Hrothgar's left door and lets it fall. At his side, Istha sits down on the stairs with a groan of relief, and stares up at the sky.

"It's too late to go up to Paarthurnax today," she says. "Tomorrow, then."

"You're in no condition to continue, anyway," Larjan says, watching as she runs her glowing palms up the length of her leg. "I thought you healed that?"

"I did," she snaps. "It's healed, it just still hurts. I'm better at things like Destruction and Illusion than I am at Restoration, so it'll still take some time to recover."

What seems like agonizing minutes later, the great doors finally part, and Wulfgar stands before them, hardly visible beneath his hood save for the beard and a pair of chapped lips parted in surprise. He steps back, greeting them with the usual rumbling whisper of " _Dovahkiin..._ "

"Good evening, Wulfgar," Larjan says. "I hope you don't mind that we've returned. Is Arngeir - "

He breaks off suddenly as he notices the strumming of a lute, faint but distinct. _There is no music in High Hrothgar._ He turns to Istha, about to ask if she hears that or he's simply lost his mind as well as his Voice, and then another sound utterly foreign to these austere halls echoes through High Hrothgar - the unmistakeable laughter of a young girl, loud enough even for Istha to hear.

She turns to Wulfgar, eyes wide.

"You have opened your doors to disciples again?" she asks. It's not as though Wulfgar can answer her question without setting off dangerous avalanches onto the unsuspecting town of Ivarstead, but Larjan thinks the old man appears uneasy. He puts an arm out to bar their way, and gestures for them to follow him to the side.

Istha slips underneath the arm, as lithe as a shadow despite the slight limp. For once, Larjan agrees with her tendency to disregard direct orders, and with another bewildered glance at the nervous-looking Graybeard beside him, he follows. He lets the Wolf a little loose, just enough to allow his sense to follow both the unfamiliar scents and the sound of strumming through the maze of halls. He stops short in the doorway of the last chamber, Istha at his side. The strumming stops, brown fingers frozen at the bottom of a stroke. The last note played of the chorus of a baudy tavern song echoes on, quickly forgotten. The girl speaks first.

" _Drem yol lok._ Greetings, Dragonborns. We were wondering when you'd come."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not want to be written, and so, because I'm an idiot, I started a new story. Those of you who have seen Staccato can rest assured - this is still my main project. I'm going to finish this trilogy, dammit. 
> 
> Well anyway, this took off in a very different direction than expected. Originally they weren't going to make it to High Hrothgar for another four or five chapters, but... I figured this was the most realistic course to take after Larjan's secret is finally revealed.
> 
> You know what was /really/ fun to write? The scene where Larjan provokes the giant and leads him up to Bonestrewn Crest. That's why it gets a bit ridiculous.


	6. Braving the Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously:
> 
> The strumming stops, brown fingers frozen at the bottom of a stroke. The last note played of the chorus of a baudy tavern song echoes on, quickly forgotten. The girl speaks first.  
> "Drem yol lok. Greetings, Dragonborns. We were wondering when you'd come."

"Who in Oblivion are you?"

Istha's leg is aching, her head is spinning from all the healing magic she's been discretely using on herself when Larjan isn't looking, and she can't decide if she needs food or sleep more but there's something about the two strangers in High Hrothgar that has her on edge.

The Bosmer sets his lute aside and stands at the veiled hostility in her voice, moving closer to his companion and resting a two scarred brown hands on the back of her chair. He's several decades over middle-aged as far as Bosmer go, though relatively lean and strong-looking for his age. The girl doesn't look like she's reached adulthood yet, small and lost as she looks in the expanses of a gray robe, though there is a familiar ancientness in the steady gaze that meets Istha's narrowed red eyes. Her lips pull into a warm smile, revealing hints of the classic Orsimer tusks that jut slightly out of her mouth. She makes no move to push aside the heavy blankets on her lap.

"Istha-" Larjan begins, trying to keep the peace the way he always does. Before he can say more, the Orsimer girl waves her hand to the rugs that dot the floor around her as though inviting them to sit. Istha still can't shake the feeling that something is wrong, like a storm is brewing above her head and she can taste the first tingles of lightning on her tongue. Inside of her, her dragons stir.

It is only Wulfgar's watchful presence and the meaningful gaze Larjan gives her that makes Istha reluctantly kneel on a nearby rug. Her leg nearly gives out and she tries to disguise the pain as exhaustion, though she thinks Larjan might pick up on it. She hopes the damned limb will recover quickly - she doesn't have weeks to wait for the lingering pain to fade.

"My name is Shazoth. In our culture it is considered impolite not to give our family name as well upon meeting, but you will have to forgive me. I do not have a mother's name to call my own. My frowning friend here is Aenor, and I promise he is usually far more welcoming than this. He does not speak much, which is a shame considering his lovely voice," the Orsimer girl says.

Larjan hesitates before bowing his head in greeting.

"I am Larjan Silvereyes, and my companion goes as Istha. What brought you to High Hrothgar? The last time we were here, the Graybeards were not accepting new disciples, which is why Istha and I were so... taken aback."

Shazoth seems to hesitate, twisting around in her chair and glancing up at the stony-faced Bosmer man behind her. He tilts his head minutely, a trace of doubt breaking through his cold facade, and Shazoth returns her gaze to Istha and then to Larjan, apparently deciding he's the one more prone to communication.

"We were called here, the same as you," Shazoth says, and for the first time since Istha burst into the room she detects a hint of anxiety in the calm-spoken Orsimer.

"Called?" Istha asks, a chill going down her spine. She knows the answer almost before Shazoth replies, knows it by the missing family name and the restlessness of her dragons and the wise antiquity that does not belong in the young girl's gaze.

"Yes, called. In the Last Seed, when the Graybeards spoke to the four corners of Tamriel in unison and summoned the Dragonborn."

"They were calling me," Larjan says, his head shaking in denial. "Right after we defeated Mirmulnir and I absorbed his soul, they heard it and called me. And on the way we found out Istha was also Dragonborn, but they weren't expecting her. They only called me."

Shazoth presses her green-tinged lips together, her tusks turning the corners of her mouth outwards.

"My people respect the bravery of Nords like you, Larjan Silvereyes. But your arrogance is as central to your culture as your lack of fear. They were calling all of us. Some were just slower to respond. I was sitting by the forge of my stronghold when I heard the Graybeards Shout for me, and in front of all my kin I stood and walked a full ten paces towards the Throat of the World," Shazoth says. Her hands tug suddenly at the heavy blankets resting on her lap and they pool around her ankles. Istha recoils when the girl pulls her skirts up to her knees to reveal a mockery of limbs - two mangled, useless legs, stick-thin and twisted painfully.

"By the Nine," Larjan gasps.

"A giant did this to me when I tried to stop it from attacking my stronghold," Shazoth says with those sad, old eyes. "Answering the call of the Graybeards was the first time I had walked in nearly five years. Before I even knew why, I knew they were calling to me, for me. Tell me again, Larjan Silvereyes, that Aenor and I were not summoned just as you and Istha were."

Istha can't stop staring at Shazoth's broken legs.

"You can't be Dragonborn," Istha says finally, after Shazoth lets the material of her skirt drop and Aenor bends to pull the blankets back over her lap. "You're a _child_ , and a..."

"Cripple?" Shazoth asks dryly, raising a dark eyebrow when Istha tries to bite back her words. "Perhaps. But Aenor and I have the _Thu'um_ , and unlike you we have been following the Way of the Voice. There is more than enough reason for our presence here at High Hrothgar."

Istha can't help but remember the way Arngeir turned her away when she first came here all those months ago and feel resentment towards the young girl and her silent companion.

"How can you Shout?" Larjan asks, leaning forward and looking from the Orsimer to the Bosmer intently. "Have you absorbed dragon souls?"

Shazoth casts her gaze downwards.

"My stronghold was attacked not long after the Greybeards' call. It was a bloody, firey battle, but eventually our warriors managed to bring the creature down. I watched it burn outside of our gates and it came to me though I had no part in its death. My stronghold did not understand such power, and wanted nothing to do with it, so I was exiled. If Aenor had not come across me, I would have certainly died. I assume he has devoured a dragon as well, though he's tight-lipped about such things."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Larjan murmurs, but before the four unlikely _Dovahkiin_ can speak further, Arngeir enters the room.

"Aenor, Shazoth. Return to your chambers and meditate on a Word of your choosing before you retire for the night. As for our newcomers..." Arngeir's tone grows just a touch colder as his gaze sweeps over Istha, and she feels her indignation flare up in her chest - _not this again! The Graybeards, apparently, have welcomed an Orsimer wisp of a girl, and yet still can't accept a Dunmer who's clearly more capable. Or is there more at play here?_ " Follow me."

Istha glances once more at the two strangers claiming to be _Dovahkiin_ , and looks away as Aenor gathers Shazoth's broken body into his arms and dutifully departs. Larjan raises an eyebrow at her as they stand to follow Arngeir, and she can only raise a shoulder. She has no more explanation for his strange behaviour and everything that's changed in High Hrothgar in their absence than he does.

The old Graybeard leads them through the maze of hallways to the wing in which they slept last time they were here, and Istha takes a seat on an unyielding cot and watches Arngeir and the other Graybeards warily.

"It is good to see you working together again," Arngeir says, sharp eyes scrutinizing the two of them. "Though I have to admit, we did not think you would return here again."

"Are we no longer welcome?" Larjan asks, his voice too casual. Istha's lips quirk into an anxious hint of a smile. Good, so she is not the only one sensing a strange distance between them and the monks.

"That remains to be seen. Why have you come?" Arngeir asks.

When Larjan slumps his shoulders in exhaustion and stares down at the stumps of his fingers, Istha takes charge.

"We want to speak to Paarthurnax."

Arngeir's anger is like a storm on a sunny summer day - unexpected, unbearable, and most certainly unappreciated. Istha reels back as though physically hit when his wordless cry of refusal reaches her chest and bowls her over. There is a rumble in the world, like a Daedra or a Divine has taken an enormous lute in hand and is plucking at the very strings of being. She is on her feet and charging a fire spell in each hand before she's even aware of what's happened, and she sees Larjan leaping for her just a fraction of a second too late to react. He wrenches her hands behind her back and twists, pressing her against his chest in a way that requires her to twist both arms past the breaking point to release herself. She does not know where he learned that but it's brutally effective. Not even she's cold-blooded enough to shatter her arms to escape.

"Calm down," Larjan's voice sounds in her ear, warm breath spilling over the tip of it and making her lose concentration. "This isn't you. This isn't your anger."

She suddenly realizes she's gasping for air, her chest heaving with every breath like she's sprinted up all Seven Thousand Steps. Her blood pounds in her head, drowned out only by the roaring of her dragons. Just a short distance away, Arngeir stands with his back to her, head bowed, hands pressed together in front of him. Einarth is at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder. Whether a comfort or a warning, she cannot tell.

At long last, Arngeir turns back to face them. By now Istha's heart has stopped racing and her dragons have finally quieted to growls and whispers.

"Forgive me, _Dovahkiin._ I should not have lost my temper, but your reactions have only further convinced me that this is the right choice. You will not meet with Paarthurnax. It has grown late and night on the mountain is dangerous, so you may stay the night in our halls. But in the morning you must be on your way down the Steps."

"This is absurd," Istha demands. "I have met Paarthurnax before, he gave me the Shout to unlock his gate himself. And now you won't let us see him? Why not?!"

Wulfgar shakes his head sadly and leaves the room, the only sound of his departure being the rasp of his robes against the stone tiles.

"Good night, _Dovahkiin_ ," Arngeir says, turning his back again. Einarth looks back at them and there is a strange set to his mouth, to the only part of his face that they can see not shadowed by his hood. For a moment he looks torn, and then he too follows his fellow monks out into the hall.

Slowly, slowly, Larjan releases Istha's arms. She steps away from him and runs a hand through her hair, feeling the loose braid come apart as her fingers catch on knots and matted blood.

"They've lost their minds," she says lowly, pacing around Larjan. The motion brings some semblance of order to her scrambled thoughts, though it does nothing to lessen the dull throb of her still-recovering leg. "It's the damned isolation, it's finally gotten to their heads. Welcoming strange people claiming to be Dragonborns, refusing to let us see Paarthurnax - it's absurd, he isn't their pet. He even said he was lonely. What would he say if he knew they have the audacity to deny him the company he longs for?"

"Istha, all the pacing is making me dizzy."

"Then close your eyes, you idiot. No, don't. You might fall asleep," she mutters, suddenly whirling on him. "We have no choice. We've got to go up the mountain tonight and speak with him, or we'll never get the chance."

"No, relax. Istha, look at me."

Larjan's hands suddenly clamp down on either side of her face and pull her chin up, forcing her to meet Larjan's pale gaze. His palms are warm and rough against her skin but she hardly notices, focused as she is by how strange and unequal his grip is on her. On her right cheek, where three more fingers should be holding her in place, there is only emptiness where the cold of High Hrothgar caresses her skin. As though Larjan comes to the same conclusion, he drops that hand and cups her face more tenderly with the other one.

Istha leans into it subconsciously, her imagination suddenly replacing his hand with a pillow. Her eyelids flicker down. She's exhausted - but she can't be. Not yet.

"Look at me," he repeats. Her eyes return unwillingly to his. "We're hungry, we're exhausted, you're still injured. We made what should have been at least a two-day trek in one. We're in absolutely no condition to continue up the mountain, no matter how important this Paarthurnax is. We're not invincible, Istha. We're mortal and we need rest."

She opens her mouth to argue half-halfheartedly and freezes as the pad of his thumb forces her lips back together again.

"No arguing," he says. "We'll talk to Arngeir again in the morning and I'm sure he'll be easier to reason with then. And if we've got time, we can even speak more with Shazoth and Aenor, find out their part in this. Now I don't know about you, but I really want a bath."

He releases her and steps back before she can answer, and Istha watches his back as he pulls out a dusty folding screen and a huge metal tub that makes a dreadful scraping sound along the stone. She peels her armour off in grime-encrusted layers and sits cross-legged on a rug as she begins to clean every swath of leather and buckle despite the weight in her limbs and head. Larjan returns from several trips outside with buckets of snow, and when the tub is overflowing with soggy snowflakes she melts the rest down for him.

Istha hears bits of metal and mail come off as he undresses behind the screen and tries not to think about the fact that a well-positioned candle casts his shadow onto the thin barrier as he climbs into the tub and groans.

"Something hurt?" she asks, pausing in her polishing and frowning in his direction.

"No, it feels great. I didn't realize how sore all that riding has made me."

She hums noncommittally in reply and focuses on the grooves between the leather plates in her armour where dried blood has encrusted, picking the stubborn bits out with the tip of her dagger. Something is nagging at the back of her mind and she tries to determine exactly what it is as she works. Once she's done with her chestpiece she turns her attention to her gauntlets, but doesn't finish the second one before Larjan groans again.

Istha grits her teeth and stands, shoving her discarded armour towards the bed.

"What hurts?" she demands as she rounds the folding screen and is greeted with a view of Larjan staring up at the ceiling with a ridiculous smile on his face. It fades into a look of confusion as he notices her and leans forward as though to shield his nudity from her. There's not much point, the water in the tub is so clouded with dirt and blood that she can't see anything but his chest and his knees anyway.

"Nothing hurts," he says, eyeing her warily as she sits by the tub and readies a healing spell that takes more effort to conjure that it should. "Put that away, you need to rest."

"You keep groaning," Istha responds. "At the very least I can take away some of the pain."

"I'm groaning in happiness," Larjan insists. "This bath is the best thing I've felt all week."

"People don't groan when they're happy," she retorts. "They groan when they're in pain."

"And you would know all about that, since you're always happy, right?" Larjan asks dryly. "Look Istha, just because you never enjoy anything in life doesn't mean I don't. Now put your godsdamned magic away and let me appreciate this fucking tub of water."

Istha closes her fingers on her readied healing spell and dips her hand in the water experimentally.

"It's gone cold," she says with a disgusted grimace, spreading her fingers underwater and sending enough fire magic pulsing through her fingers to noticeably heat it.

"What if I liked it like that?" Larjan complains, taking her hand and throwing it out of the tub possessively.

"Larjan, it was freezing."

"And? So is Skyrim, haven't you gotten used to it yet?"

She fixes her gaze on his innocent-looking face, trying to look unimpressed with their banter, but she gets distracted by how clean he looks, his hair out of its usual wolftail and combed through with wet fingers, his skin devoid of dirt and sweat-smudged warpaint. And suddenly she's struck with a pang of sadness that she really never will get used to Skyrim - her home is still in Morrowind, no matter what she's tried to convince herself these last two or three years.

When Istha leans forward and runs a searching hand through Larjan's damp hair, she's almost as surprised as he is, but she quickly pushes her misgivings aside. It's been nearly three years, dammit, and she needs the comfort. And if she crawls closer and pulls Larjan's face to hers, well, she needs that too.

It takes him a moment to react to her, but soon his mouth sighs open against hers and she kisses him like it'll make all the loneliness go away. His mouth is warm against hers, almost astonishingly so, and she welcomes it with a gentle bite and an apologetic sweep of her tongue when he makes a quiet sound of protest in his throat. His hand comes up to rest on the back of her head, fingers burrowing into her tangled hair and she returns the gesture, cupping the back of his neck with her free hand. He groans and she nearly bursts into laughter, remembering their argument about appropriate situations in which to groan. Instead they clutch each other closer, and even though his hand is dripping cold water onto her back and the edge of the tub is digging into her ribcage and this is the most uncomfortable kiss she's ever had, she thinks to herself she could do it over another hundred times.

Until one of her hands slips lower, palm running over the curve of his shoulder and fingers skimming the smooth planes of his back - and the rough texture of branded skin. She belatedly remembers the cruel marks the Thalmor left on him.

His lips turn to stone underneath hers, still partially parted. It takes him another second to shrug off her wandering hand and shove her away violently. Istha throws an arm behind her to stop herself from falling backwards onto the tile at the strength of his push and stares wide-eyed as he stands and wraps the towel thrown over the folding screen around him without another word.

"Larjan," she says, her voice tiny. "Larjan, you said nothing hurt."

He steps out of the tub and disappears around the folding screen, and she hears him dry himself off and tug a clean tunic over his head. Half of her wants to follow, wants to demand that he let her heal him, if not the scars then the bone-deep weariness that she knows because she carries it too. But Istha understands the unspoken message of his cold eyes and the screen between them. She pulls her knees to her chest and suddenly feels very cold again. She hates Skyrim. She hates Skyrim and its stupid stubborn inhabitants and its damned living legends. She hates the way seduction is a game to her and Larjan refuses to play.

She hates everything her life has become since Helgen, but not as much as she hates herself.

After a long stretch of silence, she peeks around the screen and realizes Larjan has already gone to bed. He lies on his side, turned away from her, the covers pulled up so high she can only see a few strands of pale blond hair streaking over the pillow. She gives herself a few more moments to sulk and then gets to work, dragging the tub of limpid water so obnoxiously she thinks she's not only made her point but woken the entire monastery too, and dumps its contents outside in the courtyard after some manhandling.

When that's done, she gets to work cleaning his armour, since he's apparently not getting around to doing it tonight. The occupation soothes her, the intricate details of the wolf head that adorns his chest piece needing so much attention that for a while she forgets why she's doing this. The candle at her side burns lower and lower, and eventually her chin falls to her chest and she nods off.

When Istha awakes again, the room is pitch black and her cheek is resting on rough cloth instead of stone. She skims her fingers over the surface of the pillow, blinking as she tries to remember when she crawled into bed, but freezes when she hears whimpered pleas from across the room. Larjan is having nightmares again, the ones he has every single night, the ones she can never wake him from. She often holds him and tries to soothe him with gentle words and a rocking motion, but with the exception of the night they spent in Ivarstead he has never remembered in the morning.

For a moment she thinks about the way he shoved her away and refused to meet her eyes earlier, and then she realizes he must have gotten up after she fell asleep and tucked her into bed. It is bizarre, the way they look after each other when the other doesn't know.

And then a particularly strong sob chokes out of his throat and her mind is made. She slips out from underneath the thick quilt and walks silently across the room to his bed, wincing at the cold breeze that flits around her bare ankles. But when she reaches him the whimpers finally slow and come to a stop. She stands there for another moment, a blueish magelight bobbing by her head and casting shadows onto his tear-streaked face, but he makes no more noise.

Istha considers climbing into bed with him and holding him the rest of the night because he seems to sleep better with another presence nearby and Azura knows he needs the rest, but she's so tired she doesn't think she'd wake up in time to return to her bed and she's not sure how he'd react to find her pressed up against him after today's earlier events.

So instead she bends down and presses a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, tucks a blond lock of hair behind his ear, and returns to her own bed. She lies awake under the blankets for another few moments, thinking about dragons and destiny and a Shazoth's choice of words, and she knows she is missing a piece of the puzzle that will reveal to her the bigger picture. But exhaustion pulls her back under before she can identify it.

At dawn when Wulfgar comes to wake them, Larjan doesn't say anything about their kiss. So she doesn't either.

She does, however, tug on Wulfgar's trailing sleeve and ask if they've rethought their decision to allow them passage to see Paarthurnax. The old man hesitates for a moment, then points a thin, knobbly finger at Larjan. Slowly, the Graybeard nods. Istha barely has enough time to smile in relief before the finger moves to her and Wulfgar shakes his head sadly. The message is clear. Istha can only stand frozen in spot as the monk looks at her - _is that an apology in his eyes?_ \- before he bows his head and departs.

Istha's first thought is indignation - what does he mean, she can't go? And her second thought is dread because - _oh Azura, Larjan won't be able to Shout his way up_. Apparently he's come to the same conclusion, because he's finally looking at her and when their panicked gazes meet Istha feels a tiny tingle down her spine. Her mouth is dry, for once void of all the sarcastic remarks that spring to mind.

"Oh gods. Istha, you know the Graybeards will catch on as soon as I can't Shout my way through. How are we going to do this without losing their cooperation?" Larjan hisses, glancing furtively at the open doorway.

"Relax," Istha says, turning away and furrowing her brow in worry. "I've got it figured out."

She doesn't, but she will.

 

.......................................................................................................................................................................................

 

Mealtimes in High Hrothgar are, as always, a communal effort that can't even be thought of until morning meditation ends. By the time Arngeir pronounces their silence profound enough and sends Larjan and Aenor outside to retrieve the usual supplies, Istha is starving. It's probably her fault that meditation took so long, because she kept interrupting to demand that Arngeir explain why she wasn't allowed to accompany Larjan to the Throat of the World. She doesn't get an answer.

Afterwards she joins Shazoth in the pantry, peeling apples to flavour the porridge with - _unbelievable! The Graybeards have embraced the luxury of food that actually tastes like something! Istha is in awe of the Orsimer girl's persuading abilities_ \- and wonders how to best start up the trouble she's apparently becoming infamous for.

The young girl's attention is firmly fixed on the apples in front of her, and the pot of simmering porridge is directly in her line of sight. Istha needs her to turn. And to do that, she may as well start up a conversation about something that she thought about last night anyway.

"Shazoth," she begins. "There are a few details from your story that stuck with me through the night. You said your stronghold kicked you out after you devoured a soul in front of them, just like that..." and in her mind's eye she does not see a young Orsimer girl but instead herself, standing defiantly in front of her mother, hearing the news that she did not belong, had never actually belonged.

"It was not a difficult choice for them," Shazoth admits. "The stronghold took me in as a little girl, made me Blood-Kin when I proved myself worthy against the giant, but I was not born of one of the chief's wives. I was skilled with potions and ingredients and the wise mother took me under her wing, but Orsimer culture... It's a little different."

"I thought as much," Istha says, frowning at her crudely peeled apple. She has little experience in the kitchen. In comparison, Shazoth's time spent practicing alchemy shows in five already perfectly peeled apples, already neatly lined up as though ready to mock Istha's one contender. The other girl turns deftly in her chair, her shoulders now square with Istha.

"Why?" Shazoth challenges. "Because all you've heard about my people are stereotypes?"

"No!" Istha says, trying to hide a smile because Shazoth is playing right into her game. "Because... First, tell me where Aenor comes from."

"It's not information he shares willingly," Shazoth replies. "He's a very private person."

"I'm not asking to stick my nose into your business," Istha says, growing irritated. A conversation that was supposed to be a distraction has given her more information than she expected. "I'm just looking for an explanation, Shazoth, because I've seen both of you before and I want to know why!"

The Orsimer girl simply stares at her for a moment, stunned into silence.

"I've never seen you before in my life," Shazoth responds, and her eyes are wary and suspicious. "My stronghold doesn't take kindly to visitors, and while Aenor and I made our way towards High Hrothgar in the last few months you were too busy running around Skyrim defiling the Way of the Voice."

"Oh shut up about that," Istha snaps. "Just tell me. Tell me why on Tamriel I would have seen a crippled Orsimer girl and an old Bosmer that won't talk to strangers in the Time Wound because I don't understand, Shazoth. I don't understand why we out of all people were cursed to be Dragonborn and why we're all different races and ages and personalities - and the most important question, why there's so many of us when there was supposed to be one."

Shazoth is silent for a long time, simply staring at Istha with wide, shining eyes and slightly parted lips, like she's been given an answer to a question she's had for weeks and is so shocked to hear it that she's forgotten how to speak.

"You've seen the _Tiid Ahraan_? By Malacath - tell me what you saw!"

"Tell me about Aenor first," Istha insists. The Orsimer peels another two apples before she finally makes her decision.

"Fine. He was brought up by a barren farming couple as their own child. When he was old enough to realize two Nords could not make a Bosmer son no matter how hard they tried, he left home and worked from town to town until he had enough gold to enroll in the Bard's-"

"That's enough," Istha snaps, "I asked where he comes from, not his entire life story. All I needed to know was... You didn't have a family, and neither did he."

"Oh, is that important? Is it some sort of staple for heroes to have a tragic upbringing with no parents?" Shazoth asks, sarcasm dripping from her voice. Istha grimaces as she reaches for her third apple.

"Stop that, you're too young to be jaded. No, it's not a staple, but... a trend. Out of all of us, Larjan's the only one who was brought up by his parents. He's also the only one of us I didn't see in the Time Wound as a very young child. Do you get what I'm trying to say?"

At that very moment, Borri pokes his head into the pantry and motions towards the apples and then to the door. Istha supposes he means Aenor and Larjan have returned from their hunt, and waves to the Graybeard to show she's gotten the message. When his hooded head vanishes from the doorway, she turns back to Shazoth.

"Well?" Istha asks. Shazoth worries at her lip with one chipped tusk before looking up at Istha with those too-serious brown eyes. Her earlier excitement upon hearing the Time Wound mentioned has completely vanished.

"I think there are some things that we are not meant to know," Shazoth says. "You are trying to search for answers before you know the right questions, and you will get hurt doing it. Don't ask me or anyone else this question again, _Dovahkiin_."

"Very well," Istha responds coldly, scooping up the pot of porridge and leaving the girl behind. "What would you know? You're a _child._ "

Breakfast is an awkward affair. The Graybeards eat in silence as always, communicating with tilted heads and gentle hand gestures. Larjan won't meet Istha's eyes, and Shazoth holds a one-sided conversation with Aenor regarding a lovely legend she read last night about Queen Potema. Istha simply watches, picking halfheartedly at the strips of dried goat mead and chunks of hard cheese in her plate. Beside her, Larjan finishes his portion of dried rations and reaches for the porridge. Istha bites her lip and casts a quick look around the table.

No one else is watching. As Larjan picks up his spoon with an unsteady right hand, she juts her elbow out and knocks the bowl over. The porridge spills over the table and drips into his lap. He leaps up with a small cry of surprise just as the bowl rolls and clatters on the floor. Six curious gazes fix upon a flustered-looking Larjan, while Istha eyes the spilled porridge with satisfaction.

"Everything all right, _Dovahkiin_?" Arngeir asks. Larjan glances at Istha with wide eyes and swallows thickly. She tightens her hands into fists as he seems to search for an answer.

"Yes," he says after an uncomfortably long pause. "Yes, I'm all right. It's just hard. To hold a spoon."

He raises his left hand for a second and then puts it away behind his back quickly. Istha glares around the table until everyone lowers their gazes and gives him the privacy he so desperately seeks right now.

"Come on Larjan," she says as she stands and takes his other hand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

She can tell she's in for an earful before they even reach their room.

"You did that on purpose," he accuses as soon as they're out of earshot, his voice low but shaking with anger. "By the Nine, Istha, what did I do to deserve that? Do you know what it's like to be missing half my hand? Do you know how long it took me to learn how to hold a knife with it so I could cut my food? Do you know how many nights I sparred with General Tullius trying to - to..."

With every frustrated _'do you know'_ he jabs an accusing finger into Istha's face, forcing her to take a step backward until the bed comes up behind her knees and she sprawls backwards onto it. From this angle Larjan just looks more threatening, his face flushed and twisted with pain, his stance tense and on-edge. For a moment neither of them dares to say anything as Istha stares at Larjan's yellowed irises and prays desperately for the Beast that lurks under the surface to retreat and allow the blue to come back.

Finally his breathing slows and he blinks as though waking from a dream, his eyes once more the too-pale blue she knows. The hand pointed at her face uncurls and lowers, but his expression remains unhappy.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Istha says quietly. "I just needed to stop you from eating the porridge."

"It still wasn't fair of you. I'm sick of being your puppet," Larjan says. Then, his eyebrows raise as he processes the second statement. "Wait, why? Oh gods Istha, you're fucking kidding me. _Again?"_

She barely has time to open her mouth before he whirls on his heel and marches away.

"Arngeir!" _Arn-_ " his call is suddenly muffled as Istha leaps up after him and clamps her hand over his mouth. Her fingers slip inside and she has a split-second to register wet warmth before there is a sudden pain in her fingers and she yanks them back with a quiet yelp.

" _You bit me_!" she hisses as Larjan shakes her grip off and glowers at her.

"Let go!" he growls.

"Keep your voice down, you imbecile," Istha responds, and hesitates only for a moment before drawing her fist back and punching him in the face. She hears a splintering sound just as her knuckles connect with his cheekbone and when pain blossoms up her hand she realizes it's not from him.

"That's enough!" Larjan demands, stepping forward faster than she'd have thought possible and throwing her over his shoulder. "You can't do this every time someone doesn't agree with you - _ouch!_ "

His righteous tirade is cut off as Istha jabs the fingers of her uninjured hand into the pressure point above his hip. He drops her onto her bed unceremoniously in response and makes to turn towards the doorway again. Istha springs up yet again, gritting her teeth through the jolts of pain in both her hand and the leg that's still recovering from that damned mercenary in Riften. She throws herself onto his back, looping her arm around his neck and pulling up so the inside of her elbow presses against his Adam's apple and jerks his head up.

He makes a gargled choking sound and immediately drops to his knees and ducks, throwing her over his head. Istha can't react fast enough to stop herself from flipping and lands heavily on the stone floor, the landing knocking all the air from her lungs and making her vision go momentarily black. When she's regained control of her breathing, she tries to sit up, only to fall to the side from the dizziness in her head. Having learned her lesson, she pressed her uninjured hand to her temples and summons the necessary concentration to heal.

Istha refuses to ever dabbling in hand-to-hand combat again.

Once her headache's receded and she's repaired the bones in her hand, she stands up and limps after Larjan. She finds him back at the table, halfheartedly poking Arngeir's cheek.

She has to stiffle a giggle at the cranky Graybeard - he sits slumped in his chair with his head leaning back, the hood having fallen and revealing an aged face with significantly less frown-lines than usual. His mouth is slight parted and as Istha leans on the doorway to stabilize herself, a quiet snores rumbles out of the normally restrained monk.

All around the table, his fellow Graybeards and their two new disciples lie in similar states. Larjan, however, doesn't find the situation nearly as funny as she does.

"They're innocent people, Istha. You can't keep drugging people with stamina poisons whenever you feel like it, there are going to be consequences! If not to their health, then to you!"

"They got in our way," Istha argues, her faint smile fading as she sees the seriousness in her companion's expression. "Or do you mean to tell me you actually did want to tell them you lost your _Thu'um_ and you couldn't get up the mountain alone?"

"...We could have figured something out," he refutes.

"Believe me, this wasn't my first plan," Istha says, rolling her eyes. "At first I considered playing along and sneaking after you with an invisibility spell, but that didn't solve the problem of the first gate. So this was the best I could do with the time we had, all right? Calm down."

In response Larjan simply gives her a dirty look and storms past her, knocking against her shoulder and making her wince. She hears the sound of breaking glass before she catches up to him and forces her pained leg to move faster. By the time she rounds the corner every single poison she had in her pack has been dumped out and smashed on the floor.

"Larjan!" she exclaims. "I needed those!"

"Not anymore," he says shortly. "You can come up with better ideas now. Get dressed. We're leaving."

At least that part of the plan's working, Istha thinks sullenly to herself as she picks glumly at the remains of her potion stock. He could have at least left her the deadly poisons, the ones she uses in battle. It's not like she would have used those ones on an irritating obstacle such as the Graybeards. She likes to think of herself as efficient, not cruel.

Eventually once she's bundled herself up in every layer she possesses, she turns to face Larjan and is momentarily taken aback. The added bulk of two layers makes him look the way he used to before Istha ran from destiny from this very spot, before the Thalmor took him and broke him. She averts her eyes and tries to recall the progress he's already made in his recovery, the strength and weight he's already gained back.

He just dominated her in a fist fight, didn't he? But there was never a question of who would win. Against an opponent who knows what to do in close quarters, she still worried he can't hold his own. He's still so... _marked._ She doesn't think he realizes how vulnerable his dependence on that... that _thing_ he becomes when black smoke swallows him and spits a wolf-man out.

"Let's go," she says thickly.

They enter the courtyard. High Hrothgar's huge doors close behind them with a powerful thud that has Larjan jumping and looking over his shoulder. Istha marches determinedly towards the stairs that lead up in the opposite corner of the courtyard. Larjan falters the closer they draw, seeing the storm contained in the gate. Istha has to admit it doesn't look inviting to her either. The flurry of snow out in the courtyard is so thick that it has already settled on the hood and shoulders of her cloak, and it only gets worst past Paarthurnax's gate. She stops just past the extinguished fire pit, where Paarthurnax whispered to her from his summit and gouged knowledge into the stone.

She kneels and begins digging through the snow that's formed over top, doubling her efforts when her fingers scrape and reveal gray instead of white. More digging and a few well-placed fireballs slowly unearth the Words of Clear Skies. The same carvings that glowed for her upon Paarthurnax's commanded whisper are now silent for Larjan. Istha waits for their fire to start, waits for wisps of knowledge to reach out and embrace him. But the light in the carvings has long since gone out.

"Let's just keep climbing," Larjan says, and his voice sounds wrong so she looks up and realizes there are tears frozen to his cheeks. He turns away from her gaze and starts up the stairs.

"No it should work," Istha insists, sitting on her haunches in the snow and gazing after him. "It worked on Bonestrewn Crest!"

But these Words are not on a Dragon Wall that has guarded their secrets and protected them from fading. They were only temporary, and the knowledge is lost to Larjan.

 _We should have done this all together,_ she reflects bitterly. _Perhaps then he would still have his Thu'um, and we would not need to be here at all._

But her mistakes are set in stone, the same way the faded Words are, and there is nothing she can do to reverse time.

The only thing she _can_ do is move forward relentlessly, and try to make up for her inaction. So she lurches to her feet and follows Larjan up, drawing up to his side in front of the gate that towers over both of them.

"I can't do this," Larjan says flatly, staring straight ahead. His hands shake at his sides.

"We can," Istha insists, realizing he's on the verge of a breakdown and knowing she can't let that happen. She steps in front of him and cups her gloved hands around his cheeks.

"No. I can't. I can't do this."

"You have to," Istha replies matter of factly, and when his gaze finally begins to focus and he meets her eyes, she knows it's time. She turns and faces the raging storm confined beyond the gate, and takes a deep breath.

_Lok Vah Koor!_

A wave of warmth bursts free from her mouth and forms a rippling path in front of them, a path that the snow and wind can't seem to touch but curves around. Istha eyes it appraisingly and then takes Larjan's hand, pulling him along with her.

They speak very little on the climb, only pausing to rest as Istha's leg grows increasingly stiffer and painful, and for water breaks. Halfway up the combination of the Voice and the cold begins to scratch at her throat, but she presses on determinedly, knowing that in a way it's her fault Larjan can't lend his own _Thu'um_ to help them carve a way through the inhospitable winter.

Larjan notices the danger before she does and stops in the middle of the path. She looks at him with exhaustion as he suddenly perks up and stares intently at the white out in front of them, before letting go of her hand to reach for the weapons sheathed on his hips and cursing loudly.

"Both Chillrend and the Axe of Eastmarch are enchanted with ice," he says. "Istha, now would be a good time to get your fire magic ready."

"What's wrong?" she asks, her palm already outstretched and summoning a flame atronach.

"Ice wraiths. Can't you hear them? They snap their teeth."

Istha can't. Unlike him, she's not gifted - _or cursed_ \- with a Wolf's senses. I used to have better senses than him, she remembers with mild irritation. She focuses on all the warmth she has in her chest and keeps her fingers slightly curled over the flames in her hands to make sure they don't blow out.

They come in a pair, one moment just white shadows indistinguishable from the snow, the next shimmering ice and tiny snapping jaws.

Istha turns away from Larjan as he tears off his gloves and lets his hands grow into long, curving claws, and turns her attention to her magic. The wraiths hardly seem like difficult opponents, but she quickly finds that both she and her atronach can't aim quickly enough to hit them. Her bare skin begins to crack and bleed from their bites, and she turns instead to lashing out with her arms to try to bat the damned creatures away from her face.

They kill the first one by accident. Istha's atronach gives one last powerful explosion as it dies and the more daring of the wraiths is caught in the flames and disintegrates with one last hiss. She and Larjan join forces on the second one and though a few fireballs inadvertently bounce off of Larjan's armour instead of hitting their target, they eventually manage bring the second one down. Like Istha, Larjan is covered in tiny bleeding cuts on his hands and face, which she tiredly heals and binds.

"My father used to say a Nord didn't become a grown man or woman until they killed their first ice wraith," Larjan jokes despite the exhaustion evident on his face. "Welcome to adulthood, Istha."

"Oh shut up," she says, and hauls him to his feet.

Not long afterwards, they both trip and land face-first in the snow. Istha stands up and frowns at the ground - bared by her Shout and their passage, a long curving arch pokes out of the snow. Upon closer examination, they realize it's a vast bone, bleached white by exposure and long since having lost all the meat that once covered it. Larjan digs a little ways up and reveals several more bones, all curved the same way.

"It's a ribcage," Larjan says, peering at it from underneath the fur of his hood. "Istha... I think it's a dragon."

"What on Tamriel is it doing up here?" she muses.

"The Old Tongues killed it," Larjan says. "It was one of my favourite legends. They battled Alduin and his most loyal supporters here on the Throat of the World... This must have been one of Alduin's allies."

"Good riddance," Istha mutters, and gets to her feet. Larjan stares at the exposed bones for another moment longer, and follows her lead.

By the time they reach the last stretch of the path to Paarthurnax, Istha's Voice is almost completely gone, but she clutches Larjan's hand nonetheless and they soldier one through the wind, only stopping for her to Shout when they physically can't go on.

"Larjan," she says, and breaks into a coughing fit. He tries to shush her, but she pushes his hand away. "This is important. Don't freak out. Paarthurnax is a dragon."

There is a long moment of silence as Larjan stares at her as though she's gone mad and Istha privately thinks that she should have worded that better. If her throat didn't hurt so, maybe she would have weaned him into the truth, but she just doesn't have the strength to do that now.

"Paarthurnax is a dragon," Larjan repeats flatly. His pale eyes are wide with disbelief, standing out in stark contrast to his rosy face.

Istha is not quite sure how to interpret his reaction. She bites her lip and nods.

"Paarthurnax is a _dragon_?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I think that was the longest I've gone without posting a chapter. Sorry. Packing up my entire life and moving into uni residence was... surprisingly time consuming. As was settling into a routine and trying to make friends afterwards. Updates from now on might slow down slightly, I have three math courses and absurd amounts of homework from all.
> 
> I guess I tried to make up the wait with a ridiculously long chapter? Not much actually happened but I tried to focus more on character and description than action. I keep promising that Istha will get reality knocked back into her head soon, but these chapters always end up being longer than I expected. Still, by my calculations that scene should fit into the next chapter because it works best with Larjan's point of view. What else? Oh, new characters! Hope you guys like Shazoth and Aenor as much as I do! Pity they don't fit into the story more... As for the awkward bathtub kiss... Aw man, I'm starting to crack up just thinking about it. 
> 
> I'm going to leave you guys with a single line that didn't make it into the final draft because it was too casual and ruined the mood:   
> "Dovahkiin, we were already torn about deciding to allow you permission, be careful where you tread with your next words," Arngeir warns, his voice rising in volume as his anger grows. Istha thinks the damn monk needs to get laid.


	7. Hard Truth to Hear -  Part1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously:
> 
> By the time they reach the last stretch of the path to Paarthurnax, Istha's Voice is almost completely gone, but she clutches Larjan's hand nonetheless and they soldier one through the wind, only stopping for her to Shout when they physically can't go on.  
> "Larjan," she says, and breaks into a coughing fit. He tries to shush her, but she pushes his hand away. "This is important. Don't freak out. Paarthurnax is a dragon."

Larjan's first thought is to turn right back around and suffer the arduous journey down to High Hrothgar. He would sooner face the combined wrath of four Graybeards than he would their mysterious Grandmaster who now was apparently - of all things - a dragon!

"Istha, I swear by the Nine if this is another one of your tricks..." he warns, and she has enough presence of mind to shift nervously under his glare.

"I didn't want to mention it before, I was worried you might not agree to come," she says.

"Of course I wouldn't agree to come!" Larjan responds. "Who wants to climb the world's highest mountain to chat with a _fucking dragon?_ "

"He can help you!" Istha insists.

"Sure he will," Larjan says with a toneless laugh. "Because biting off my head and ending my misery counts as helping me, right?"

"Larjan, you're going up that mountain and giving him a chance or so help me, I will Shout you off a cliff."

He turns away from her and glares at the path they've forged through the storm. The effects of Istha's Clear Skies Shout are temporary, and he can see the wind and snow swirl powerfully against the tunnel of peace she's created through the blizzard. The tunnel narrows behind them, the snow gradually wearing down the effects of the Shout and returning to its natural state of being.

In essence, Larjan's dead if he leaves her company. He grits his teeth and looks back at her, and it surprised to see that her face is not as smug as he would have expected, but something bordering on apologetic - or as close to it as her damned pride allows her to get.

"Fine. And if we die, I'll hunt you down in whatever afterlife it is you Dark Elves go to, and I will never let you live this down," Larjan promises.

"Can't live anything down if we're dead," Istha mutters, and when he glares again she adds another comment. "But we're not going to die, because Paarthurnax is a... Well I don't think dragons can be good, precisely, but... He makes an effort to resist evil temptation. You'll see."

They forge through another long stretch of blindingly white snow, until they come to stand before two worn pillars of rock forming a natural gate. Istha glances at him as though to check if he is ready, and Larjan keeps his face carefully neutral. Under the surface, he is alarmed by the prospect of coming face to face with a dragon with any goal in mind other than to ensure it eats as few people as possible. If worst comes to worst, he has the Wolf on his side, but he does not want to think about the other creature that sleeps under his skin.

He watches Istha plant her feet firmly in the snow and inhale deeply.

_Lok Vah Koor!_

The final Shout comes as a ripple of warmth and calm, and the way before them clears as though there had never been a blizzard at all. Larjan half-expects Paarthurnax to be on the other side of the two pillars, but they have not reached the top of the mountain yet. He groans as he faces down the last stretch of the hike and holds Istha's hand tighter, half dragging her through the snow when her pace begins to falter.

They hear Paarthurnax before they see him.

Larjan only feels the hair rising on the back of his neck and a sudden woosh of cool air before the shadow of wings glides over the snow and a low, rumbling roar seems to shake the mountain to its core. Istha shudders and clamps her hands over her ears, turning away from him and hunching her shoulders. He's suddenly reminded of the crazed bloodlust in her eyes when they heard the dovah that lived on Bonestrewn Crest, and he tenses.

After a moment, she seems to relax.

"I'm fine," Istha mutters, rapidly blinking away a rather dazed expression. "I don't know what came over me."

Larjan lays a comforting hand on her shoulder and rubs the snow-encrusted fur there, glancing up again when another roar echoes from the summit.

"He doesn't seem happy to see us," Larjan mutters, and he nearly suggests that they turn around before Istha simply presses her lips together in a thin dark line and pushes him forward. The Grandmaster waits for them at the peak.

Larjan is not quite sure how to hold himself in front of Paarthurnax. The pale elder is easily larger than every dragon he's faced down to date with the exception of Alduin, and the weathered scars and cracked spikes tell an age-old story of survival.

" _Dovahkiin_... Two of you. This was not what I asked."

It's a bit of a shock hearing a dragon speak in the Common Tongue, as Larjan's noted most of them prefer to taunt him in their own language.

"Hello, Paarthurnax," Larjan stammers, stepping forward and jerking his head down in a small bow. He's afraid to expose the back of his neck for too long, and hopes his unease doesn't show as strongly as it feels. "My name is Larjan Silvereyes, and I came here to speak to you."

The elderly dragon merely lashes his tail and lowers his neck so his face is level with theirs and one bright, intelligent eye scruntinizes him.

"Mmm, yes," Paarthurnax says eventually. He speaks with a distinctly reptillian inclination, Larjan notes, stressing his _'s'_ s. "And with you I will speak, but your companion has forfeited her right to be here. Istha must go."

"Paarthurnax!" Istha exclaims, marching forward and placing her hands on her hips. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Return to the Graybeards," Paarthurnax replies dismissevely, already turning his attention back to a very bewildered Larjan. "I want nothing to do with you."

"Grandmaster Paarthurnax! I mean, sir!" Larjan stumbles over his words, unsure exactly what to call a 'wise' dragon in an argument he wants to win without having something bitten off. "You can't make Istha leave-"

"I can't, _Dovahkiin_?" the dovah rumbles threateningly, once again raising his head and adjusting his balance on his wing talons so he towers over the two heroes. "Do you forget that this is my _strumah_ , my mountain that you intrude upon?"

"No, that's not what I meant. Paarthurnax..." Larjan stops for a minute, holding the words on his tongue back, and then he takes the leap of faith. "I needed Istha to lead me here, and I can't return to High Hrothgar without her. I've lost my _Thu'um._ "

At this, the old dragon rears back in surprise and snorts a small puff of steam. With a quiet growl he takes off, beating them down with the wind created by powerful strokes of his wings. Larjan and Istha exchange worried looks as he circles far above them once, twice, before settling upon a dragon wall that lies mostly buried under a snowdrift on the edge of the summit. From his perch he eyes the two Dragonborn without making a move to speak again.

"This isn't going well at all," Istha says, her voice tight and her eyes narrowed. "I don't know what's gotten into him."

Larjan has very little desire to get closer to the magnificent creature, but he's come all this way for answers. Even if it wasn't his idea to begin with, and he's still angry at Istha for letting him think Paarthurnax was a person until a scarce moment before their meeting, he needs this discussion. Dragon or not, Paarthurnax must have been named the Grandmaster for a reason.

"Stay here. I still want to speak to him," Larjan says eventually, having made his decision.

He hears but does not listen as Istha begins to complain, the wind stealing her words as he trudges through thick snow. Paarthurnax watches him with steady curiosity as he draws as close to the dragon wall as he dares. He does not notice the ripples in the world around him until he has already stepped through them, and is momentarily shocked by the warm vertigo that comes with a tilting reality.

He staggers out of the glimmering disturbance in the air - _that must be the Time Wound Istha spoke of_ \- and cranes his neck up to meet Paarthurnax's eyes. It is surprisingly warmer here, in the alcove of the crumbled Word wall. Whether or not magic is involved, Larjan cannot say.

"I have not heard of this before... Of a _dov_ losing the _Thu'um_ ," Paarthurnax rumbles, his rasping voice much quieter than before as though allowing their conversation privacy. "What have you done to yourself, _Dovahkiin_?"

"I-I don't know," Larjan stammers, looking down at his hands. "I was hoping you'd be able to help... That's why we came this entire distance. Istha said you helped her come to terms with her Voice, and we thought you'd know how to reawaken mine. She said she meditated in your Time Wound and-"

"Foolish elf," Paarthurnax hisses suddenly, turning his head away from Larjan and snapping his teeth together angrily. "No, _joor_ , do not approach the _Tiid Ahraan_ on pain of death. I will not make the same mistakes with you, _Dovahkiin_. I was... Too lonely. Too happy to have another to _tinvak_... to speak with, and I said too much. Look what she has become!"

Larjan turns and glances over his shoulder at his companion, seeing that she now sits in the snow with her back to them, playing with fire magic to keep herself warm. He looks at her and frowns, seeing nothing but the haughty and stubborn elf that fate has tied him to for some inexplicable reason.

"What's wrong?" he asks, turning back to Paarthurnax. To his surprise, the old dragon lowers his head in submission, baring a pale and scarred muzzle.

"Forgive me, _Dovahkiin_ ," the Grandmaster says. "I have let my anger dominate me. Tell me about this... this loss. How can it be that you no longer have your _Thu'um_? It is as integral to a _dovah_ as breath. You cannot wake up one morning and forget your _su'um_."

"I don't know. I used to talk to my dragons in my mind, but one day I tried to Shout and I couldn't... And I realized they'd gone quiet. And I haven't heard from them since," Larjan says. A crippling fear suddenly overtakes him - a fear that Paarthurnax cannot fix him and that he has been damaged and changed forever, that the world threw him back into his homeland as a wide-eyed, trusting young man and spat him out of the Thalmor dungeon as a mere shadow of his former self, weak and confined to whispers.

And in the moment where his hands clench into fists and he wants to scream but the Words won't take form, the Wolf lurches forward and takes control. Larjan transforms with a howl that is still not loud enough, choking as he is on the thick black smoke that crushes and elongates his bones, swells his heart to twice its size and pumps a wild rage through his veins. He hears the cracking of his ribs a split second before he feels it, and falls to all-fours with a growl, every breath sending shooting pains through his chest. The arrow pierces him the next moment - in the groove between two plates covering his flank. The Wolf turns on the archer with a guttural snarl, lips pulled back, but he does not manage to take three steps forward before the pain in his hindquarters brings him down to his uninjured side. 

Something as loud as a thunderclap reverberates across the peak of the mountain, and then he is frozen in place, a block of ice holding him down. It is even harder to breathe with the heavy weight of metal and ice pressing on his chest, and he can only whine pitifully and cease struggling - but even that hurts.

Suddenly there is an angular gray face leaning over him, red eyes boring into his own gold from above the shaft of an arrow. The Wolf suddenly recognizes the archer's scent and whines louder, begging her with his eyes to release him from this painful prison of ice. She says something, barring her teeth at him, and he can only look at her with wide eyes and wonder what she is saying.

He comes to his senses slowly, lulled back into his human form by the rattle of breath through his broken ribcage and the warm breath that spills over him from between Paarthurnax's jaws as the old dragon melts the effects of his Shout and steps back to let him recover.

"I'm sorry," are the first words out of Larjan's mouth when he realizes what's happened. He tries to sit up and yelps in pain as his movements accidentally press Istha's arrow deeper into his hip. She shoves him down with a hiss and examines the wound. The only warning he gets that she's about to yank the damn thing out is the pinched look on her face and then there is sharp pain dulled by the warm glow in her hand.

"My ribs," he gasps, his hands awkwardly fumbling with the clasps of his armour. She pushes his hands aside and undoes them herself, both of them conscious of Paarthurnax quietly watching from a distance. Larjan groans in relief as the stabs of pain that come with every breath fade to a dull ache. "Never gonna wear that many layers under my armour again," he mutters. Istha does not smile. When she is done healing him, she stands and steps back.

"Are you going to ask him any more questions that make him wolf out?" Istha asks Paarthurnax scathingly, the ridge in her forehead made more prominent by her narrowed eyes. The old dragon gives a low, rumbling growl in his throat instead, and Istha retreats to her spot away from the Word wall with insults muttered over her shoulder.

Larjan slumps back into the snow, exhausted by the ordeal, and barely manages to stir as Paarthurnax crawls closer, his wing-tips dragging and leaving deep furrows in the snow.

"Sit up, Dovahkiin," the old dragon instructs, and Larjan somehow finds the energy to drag himself to his haunches.

Paarthurnax pries the entire story out of him somehow, lets him falter through the two months he spent under ~~_El- her_~~ \- the Thalmor's cruel thumb, listens quietly as he describes the fire that raged through him when he escaped and never quite extinguished until he stood in Riften's sewers watching a golden enemy descend on him again and found himself powerless.

"Please," Larjan says brokenly at the end of his retelling. "You're the Grandmaster of the Graybeards. If anyone can show me how to find my Voice again, it's you."

Paarthurnax does not seem to know how to respond at first.

"I have taught the Way of the Voice for centuries and the _Thu'um_ since long before that, but even I cannot simply give the _Thu'um_ ," he says at long last. "Hmm, how to say in your tongue? I can tell you how to hunt and devour your prey, but I cannot tell you how it will taste. You must do that on your own. I meditate on the _Rotmulaag_ \- the Words of Power. I counsel in their use. It is enough for me. It may be enough for you."

"I've tried meditating-"

"Try again. Do not simply think about the _Rotmulaag_. Know them. Knowing a Word of Power is to take its meaning into yourself. Contemplate its meaning. You will become closer to that Word, as it fills your inner self," the old dragon admonishes. Larjan stares at the ground and thinks of all the Shouts his dead dragons' memories have taught him and tries to understand how he could possibly know them more when he already knows them, when he already feels them building up inside of him like the unspoken whispers they are.

Paarthurnax nudges at his shoulder with what he probably thinks is gentle force, and accidentally knocks him over. The _dov_ 's breath spills over him apologetically as he sits up again and the Wolf rears his head up again when he smells raw goat.

"Will I teach you, _Dovahkiin_?" the Grandmaster prodes. "What Word calls you to deeper understanding?"

"When I was weakest - when I was imprisoned, _Feim_ is what I used to escape," Larjan says at last, his eyes glazing over as the Throat of the World is replaced with his memory of bars and a table full of torture tools and the sheer freedom of detaching one's body from existence. " _Yol_ is what I used to enact my revenge, but _Feim_ was all I really needed."

"Ah, _Feim_. Not a choice made often by my pupils," Paarthurnax nearly purrs, and Larjan catches a distinctly proud gleam in the dragon's pale blue eyes. " _Fade_ in your tongue. Mortals have greater affinity for this Word than the _dov_. Everything mortal fades away in time, but the spirit remains. Ponder the meaning of spirit. _Unslaad zii._ Where mortal flesh may whither and die, the spirit endures all suffering. That is " _Feim_." Let that meaning fill you. _Su'um ahrk morah._ You will find that your spirit will give you more strength."

For a moment Larjan feels as though he is flying - no, not flying. It is something more gentle than flight, it is something closer to letting go of the ground and floating up to the sky, without effort or wings. It is a peaceful freedom, and for that short and everlasting and beautiful moment he feels no pain.

When he opens his eyes reality returns, but somehow it seems less cruel than before. He turns his palms up to the sky and examines the scar tissue where his missing knuckles used to be. He flexes the remaining fingers and finds that they feel a little less stiff, a little more capable. And he no longer feels quite the same anger and self-loathing - he feels lighter. Stronger.

He stands, and breathes the crisp mountain air as though with new lungs. There is no pain in his ribcage.

The pressure builds in his lungs and his head spins. _Mortal flesh may whither and die, but the spirit endures._  He inhales sharply, uncaring of the cool sting in his throat, and he Shouts.

"Feim!"

The yell is torn from his mouth by the wind and the fantasy crumbles. From her exile, Istha turns and looks at him. She is not so far that he can't see every smooth plane of her face, every disappointed twitch of her mouth and every eyelash. Her expression is unreadable.

"Feim!" he screams. "Feim! Feim!"

Larjan stands there for another moment, powerfully aware of Paarthurnax's sad gaze upon his back.

"Feim," he whispers one more time, and he does not think anyone hears at all. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Istha start towards him and he holds a hand out to the side, palm pressed outward in an unmistakable plea of _stay_. _Please_ , he thinks. _Let me have this moment of mourning._

Eventually he hangs his head and turns back to Paarthurnax. The elderly dragon suddenly looks frailer to him than before, as though all the scars and peeling scales and tears in his wings are suddenly made more prominent by his failure to awaken Larjan's _dovah_. _It's not his fault_ , Larjan tells himself sternly, but the more he looks at the Grandmaster the more vivid Alduin's powerful image grows in his mind.

" _Krosis_ ," Paarthurnax rumbles. "I wish I could do more for your pain. Perhaps it is better this way, _Dovahkiin_. I can only push you to your _dez_ , to your fate. I cannot take you there."

"It's all right. Thank you," Larjan says, and he's a little bit surprised to find that he means it. Even if his _Thu'um_ remains missing and his _dovah_ remain a gaping hole in his memory, there's a strange sort of acceptance in him. He closes his eyes and sways slightly, overwhelmed by the world.

When he opens them again he begins to walk away from the Grandmaster, and stops in his tracks a few steps away. Istha stands and watches them, a slight dark shadow against a landscape of blinding white.

"Paarthurnax, sir..." Larjan begins hesitantly, turning back. "If I may ask, what has Istha done to anger you and the Graybeards like this?"

" _Drem_... Our Way of the Voice is not an empty promise, _Dovahkiin_ ," Paarthurnax says, his tail coming around the side of his body and resting lightly on the snow as he thinks. "It is the concious choice to overcome the evil in us, and then that choice again, and again, and again. You said you fought with your _dovah_ , struggled to control their desires for power."

Larjan remembers all too well the concentration he sometimes had to exert just to walk ten steps without their whispers in his ears tempting him to spill blood or spark a blaze of destruction.

"I tried."

"And you think your _brinah_ , your companion, does not fight the same battles with hers?" Paarthurnax admonishes.

"She never said anything about it," Larjan mutters.

"Then she is not as wise as you," the old dragon says sadly. "When she first came to my _strumah_ , she was more _joor_ than _dov_. She refused the call of power. Now she is more _dov_ than _joor_. I see it in every piece of news that reaches High Hrothgar, and in the glimpses the _Tiid Ahraan_ allows me. In a way, Dovahkiin, you won your battle against your _dov_ by silencing them. She lost hers, and now I believe they influence her actions more than she knows."

Larjan is lost for a long moment.

"This silence doesn't feel like a victory, Paarthurnax, " he says eventually. "Please, don't ever call it a victory, because it's not. I look at Istha and she seems... She seems like she's the one who's really winning. She's stronger than I am."

"Stronger, and more foolish. She should have never strayed from the Way of the Voice. Her new path will bring her to ruin unless you can coax her from it."

"She doesn't listen to me. You're the one teaching the Way, talk to her, please," Larjan pleads, taking a step back towards the dragon and nearly tripping face-first into the snow. "You helped her once. Can't you do it again?"

They stare each other down for what seems like an eternity. Larjan realizes that it was foolish of him to think he could win a battle of wills with a dragon who's lived what looks like entire eras and his face suddenly feels as though it is burning. He turns away, muttering an apology for being an naive imbecile and continuing away from the crumbling dragon Wall, away from Paarthurnax and the rippling patch of reality he stands guard over and away from yet another failure.

" _Dovahkiin_."

Larjan turns, despite himself.

" _Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin_ ," the ancient Grandmaster says. "We will see each other again."

"Will we?" Larjan murmurs. Paarthurnax does not answer, staring at him with what seems like resigned sadness, and then with a low roar he spreads his tattered wings and beats them once, twice, forcing Larjan to duck to avoid being hit with a downward wingstroke as he rises into the air above them. He watches the dragon circle above the Throat for another moment or two, and after a moment Istha appears at his side. She is silent as they gaze up, until Paarthurnax gives a distant, drawn-out roar and she shudders.

"Are you okay?" Larjan asks, tearing his gaze away from Paarthurnax and peering underneath her hood. He's reminded suddenly of the way she ran off after the dragon nesting on Bonestrewn Crest, and wonders exactly what control allows her not to do that with Paarthurnax. She nods stubbornly and seems in control of herself enough that he is satisfied. "We should go," he continues, noticing that the cloudy backdrop through which the Grandmaster flies is surprisingly dark. "It'll be dark soon."

"We'll be fine," Istha says dismissively. "I made the trek down in a few hours last time."

In retrospect, it is only the first of several mistakes.

So with one last glance up at the dragon that is now so far away he could be a bird, they depart from the summit. They do not speak often, only to warn each other of slick patches of ice and tinkling whispers of wraith exoskeletons. Darkness falls sooner than Larjan predicts, and he grows uneasy when their pace down the mountain only slows as time wears on. The cold runs in his blood, as it does in all Nords, but even he starts to become affected by the ice that seems to be forming in his very lungs, and every step becomes a challenge.

But if he is having difficulties, Istha is even worse off. At first he thinks she lags because of the healing leg she stubbornly thinks he doesn't notice, but he quickly realizes it's the cold that's killing them slowly. She is a creature of fire and ash, and before long Larjan has to drape her arm over his shoulder and support her violently shivering body along. They go longer and longer stretches of distance between her weak Shouts to chase away the snowstorms, and after each one Larjan rubs her back and looks around nervously as she coughs violently.

"C'mon, Istha," he mutters, giving his Wolf senses free rein to watch for danger while they're so vulnerable. "The quicker you move, the quicker we can sit in front of the fireplace in High Hrothgar, eating plain porridge and dried bread. Doesn't that sound good to you?"

She doesn't even laugh at that, only chattering her teeth and turning her head into his shoulder slightly to show that she's heard him at all.

Larjan doesn't let himself feel fear until he stumbles for the first time, and when Istha sprawls into the snow beside him and he thinks for a moment that maybe they should sit and rest for a while until his head jerks back and he reminds himself that to do so would be death. So he drags Istha to her feet again and begs her to Shout again, pressing her close to his side in an attempt to shield both their bodies from the winds that are picking up speed in the absence of her Voice.

She manages a very whisper that clears away the snow for a few steps, and then she simply collapses against Larjan so suddenly that it is all he can do to tighten his grasp and pull her back up. Her head lolls forward and it doesn't take a priest to tell she's lost all consciousness. And without Istha's Voice... they're trapped here.

Larjan swears quietly, looking at the raging storm that still stands between them and High Hrothgar. He counted the markers on their way up to the summit, the piles of stones with sun-bleached flags waving sadly in the wind, and tries to remember how many they've already passed and how many are left to go. And then he realizes they haven't seen a marker in a very long time, and swears even louder.

If he weren't already numb as he stands there on the side of the mountain, trembling weakly, he thinks he might have felt the shiver of the realization creep down his spine. But he can't feel anything but biting cold, and he has no energy left to muster up any sort of dramatic reaction to the certainty of his death.

He remembers a blizzard a lifetime ago, when his family was still intact and Kirstte was boiling stew over a fire, glancing nervously at the door between every potato she peeled and placed into the pot. There was a candle in the window - there were candles in every window, but the snow on the other side of the glass had piled onto the sills so high that hardly any light could be seen from the outside.

Larjan's youngest sibling - Avulina, they had called her - had died just a few weeks previously from a cough that had settled into her little chest and never left until the life did. Kirstte was terrified of losing another family member to the winter. His sisters had pleaded with them to stay, but Kjern's devotion to their father was steadfast, and though Larjan shared no such love for the man, he followed his older brother's command without question. And so they went out into the storm, bundled in thick furs with tiny silver knives up their sleeves - always the tiny silver knives, just in case their father's Wolf forgot their scent.

By all accounts they should have frozen that night, should have died all because their father couldn't control himself and ran out into the cold at an increasing rate as the years spent hidden away in their little cabin increased. But just as Kirstte had kept her sons warm in a womb made of flesh, their father did the same with snow.

Larjan had woken up after falling asleep in the snow to find the three of them curled together in a burrow glazed with ice, his father's post-transformation heat warming the tiny space and melting the chill that had settled into Larjan's very bones. They had waited out the blizzard in a miserable hole dug into a snowdrift by their father's desperate hands, and returned home the next day when the snow and wind had finally abated.

More than five years later, he finds himself on his knees in front of a snowdrift, forcing his frozen joints to follow his command, and Larjan thinks to himself that he learned something useful from his father after all. He digs up, carving out a safe haven from the very same snow that is killing Istha and him.

He overestimates the hollowed out space he creates and when he drags Istha's limp body in with him, there is no way for them to fit but curled up against each other, pressed so closely that the top of Istha's head tucks under his chin. He unwraps the soaking wet tunic she wrapped around her head and gives a hiss of displeasure when the tips of her ears skim his neck and he thinks they're solid pieces of ice at first. They're so pale they're nearly the colour of his own skin, and as he presses them between his fingers he tries not to think about dead flesh.

Her hands are in slightly better shape, so he loosens his chestplate and slips them under his tunic, pressing icy palms against his bare skin in the hopes they'll take some of his warmth.

But Istha remains catatonic and even though they're now out of the wind their snowy burrow is hardly as warm as Larjan remembers his father's being. It's not safe to transform, he tells himself. Not with this little space, not with her this close. He's still not sure how he feels about the Wolf that shares his body and mind, still not sure what to think of the violent legacy his father left werewolves. But the minutes tick agonizingly and still Larjan shivers alone. He wriggles around until his hands are far away from Istha's prone body, and thinks of curving claws and an off-putting amount of fur.

His fingers twitch and his body ripples with a single wave, narrated by the crunch of vertebrae. But the Wolf is as tired as he is, and Larjan's claws dissolve into black smoke before he can manage a complete transformation. Still, their tiny burrow does feel warmer, and Istha's rhythmic heartbeat lulls him. As the Wolf curls up and goes to sleep, Larjan fights the same urge. It's hard with the darkness.

He speaks to ward off a slumber he's not sure he'll wake up from if he gives into it, and at first he simply recites every Word of Power he's learned until the chant grows too monotonous to keep his attention, and then he goes through every single prayer he learned in the Temple of the Divines, with his knees pressed against cold stone and his head bowed as he followed Silana's example. Eventually even that ends and he begins to tell stories, everyday memories of quiet summer afternoons spent helping Kirstte tend to her alchemical garden in the dry, thin soil on the mountainside or of learning to swordfight under Kjern's careful watch.

At one point Istha stirs and her now-warmed hands curl slightly against the planes of his stomach, but she does not interrupt him as she regains wakefulness, and so he continues. He speaks as though he is alone, but it is a comfort to know he is not. It is not until he feels wetness against the side of his neck that he breaks off mid-sentence and twists away from her. She turns her face away quickly, but the Wolf can hear the variations in both her heartbeat and the catch of her breath.

"Istha?" he asks.

"Keep talking," she says. Her voice is rough and hoarse, and it's not merely from the strain of Shouting so much in such a short period of time. Larjan tries to turn her back around to face him but there's hardly any spare room in the burrow for elbows and shoulders and eventually he gives up, allowing them to be a tangle of limbs.

"Istha, look at me," Larjan tries to say sternly, but when has his stubborn Elf companion listened to him. "Are you... are you crying? Was it something I said?"

"Shut up Larjan," she responds. "Shut up or I'll do something stupid."

"You'll do stupid things anyway," Larjan responds, slumping back against a hard wall of snow at his back. Just as he closes his eyes he feels her shift around, unintentionally - at least he hopes - jabbing a pointy elbow into his stomach as she turns to face him. He grimaces at her as he recovers from the blow though there's little point - the Wolf helps him see the outline of her features, but she must be blind in this darkness. The burrow doesn't allow them much space apart so their faces are so close that her breath spills across his face, warm and familiar.

"And yet, you never stop me," she says, half-whispering the end of her statement as her Shout-weakened throat gives in. Istha wriggles closer, pressing her face into his neck. Her palms slip from his bare stomach around to his back as she embraces him and Larjan feels a grudging sort of gratitude that she's taken care to have a tunic between her hands and the terrible scars on his back. Even so, he remains as stiff as a board for several more moments before he finally relaxes at the unexpected gesture. After the degree to which they both pretended last night's kiss never happened, he didn't think she'd try something like this... for a while, at least.

"Um," Larjan says eventually. "Istha."

She only murmurs something non-committal in response, shifting her head slightly and knocking his chin up. He forgets what he was about to say and blinks rapidly as he feels the unmistakable pressure of lips on his neck. He is trying to remember how to speak Common when he once again feels dampness on his skin - except this is not from tears, but rather from Istha's tongue tracing a delicate path over his throat.

He swears quietly and raises his chin despite all rational thought, his eyes flickering closed. He feels her shift again, leaning most of her weight on him as she covers his neck in open-mouthed kisses. Her lips reach the hollow under his jaw and slow their relentless progress, worrying at the sensitive skin with sharp teeth, and he breathes out shakily, his hands wrapping around her waist and pressing her closer of their own will. It does not make sense to let her do this but he no longer cares if he'll regret it later - he wants to be human again, wants to forget that he is supposed to be more than a simple man with simple pleasures, and he wants to forget so badly that his remaining fingers dig into her waist where he grips her, lest she stop and let him remember all the world's troubles.

Then her head lowers again and he has a brief moment of panic as he feels her mouth close over his Adam's apple, her teeth fastening quite deliberately over his throat. He freezes, his eyes wide open and staring at the blank expanse of snow overhead. He suddenly thinks about the weight of all those snowflakes that haven't come crashing down to suffocate them, and feels very small and insignificant indeed.

For another moment the burrow is silent, the quiet broken only by the sound of Larjan's ragged breathing and Istha's slow exhales. After what seems like an eternity - but who really knows when they're buried under snow? - Istha lets out a long sigh against his throat. Her teeth graze lightly against his skin once before she presses a kiss to his thundering pulse and props herself up on one elbow. Her other hand trails up his side to his face, surprisingly cautious and tender. She fumbles slightly as she reaches his cheek, caught off-guard by the darkness, and he turns his face toward her hand helpfully. Her thumb brushes over the corner of his lips and a moment later, her mouth replaces the careful touch of her fingers. Kissing is, like smithing, a form of art in itself. Larjan has thought of every woman in his life with whom he has been intimate as a chunk of metal, raw and unformed and trembling with potential. Until now, he visualized the desperate, anticipatory moments before sex - the moments like this with wandering hands and quiet gasps against the curve of flesh - as the work of drawing out something beautiful from ore, of teasing it out until it is bare and open and eager.

He is now struck by the strangeness that for the first time, he is the metal. Without light, they communicate entirely with touch. Istha is a cruel smith, biting at his lip without apology and then kissing it sweetly as though to erase the transgression, demanding hands getting tangled in his hair and pulling, sharp body pressed against his in a way that makes her impossible to ignore. At first he lets her exercise the control, enjoying the feel of being molded into shape, but the Wolf soon awakes with a growl, demanding he take back the power. Then he is the one kissing her fiercely and even though Istha is on top she is at his mercy. When his mouth finds the sensitive tips of her ears she all but melts in his arms with a satisfied purr.

Larjan doesn't know how long they spend like that, but eventually they both grow lightheaded and break apart, realizing it would be best not to use up all the air in such a small space. Istha once again rests on his chest and tucks her head under his chin, one hand skimming the soft slope of his neck with a gentleness he wouldn't have thought possible from her. She asks, sleepily, if he'll let her do more stupid things from now on, and he takes so long to gather his thoughts into a coherent response that she is already asleep when he answers aloud.

He frowns into the darkness, stroking her dark head with his injured hand until his wrist gets sore and he weaves his fingers into her hair instead and rests it there.

"The problem isn't that you do stupid things, Istha," he says softly to the uncaring weight of snow above. "Eating ten sweetrolls in a sitting is stupid, but it doesn't really hurt anybody. The problem is that you do stupid things that are very, very dangerous."

Larjan gets no response, as expected, only the slow rise and fall of her ribcage as she slumbers on.

He thinks about Paarthurnax, and the measures the old dragon has gone to, simply to ensure his own nature will never get the best of him. His words, and their underlying warning, remain stubbornly at the forefront of Larjan's mind. He remembers the very first time he saw Istha, stealing from a chicken coop with no regard for the owners of the farm, and her laughter as they ran from the raging inferno she turned the farmhouse into, and he has to wonder.

How big a part do their _dovah_ souls play in their actions now? Is Istha's recent bloodthirstiness caused by an inner battle with her dragons, like Paarthurnax suggested, or was it always part of her personality, always an undercurrent of danger with every sharp-toothed smile? Is Larjan the same? He doesn't want to think that he is, but he remembers his first months as a mercenary, always trying to find redemption in the eyes of the bandits he killed, and thinks to himself that he's far more relaxed with violence than he used to be, and that scares the part of him that is neither dragon nor wolf but Larjan.

...If such a part even exists.

Were they always Dragonborn, from their birth? Was that why Istha carelessly burned down homes simply to create a "distraction" and why Larjan hardly hesitated to run his father through with a silver knife when he'd felt threatened? Or did they - and Shazoth, and Aenor, and all the unknown others that may be out there - only become Dragonborn when Alduin fell into their time with roars and rains of fire and rock?

 _Istha thought Paarthurnax would provide us with the answers to everything_ , Larjan thinks in despair. _But the trip has only given us more questions._ He tightens his grip on the Elf in his arms, even as part of him wants to push her away and run before her draconian need to dominate drives her to hurt him like so many others.

 _There's nowhere to run, anyway_ , Larjan thinks to himself, and he is surprisingly calm about the sentence he gives himself. _We're trapped in an eternal storm unless Istha can Shout it away._ He thinks of the coughing bouts that had her doubled over on the journey and the pained rasp of her voice now, and doesn't know if they can wait in this burrow long enough for her _Thu'um_ to recover. He wonders if he should risk venturing out of the burrow in the morning and seeing if he can try to find the path that they strayed from, or if the blizzard will still be too harsh. He thinks it is unlikely - the reality of their situation is grim.

He wants to stay awake and agonize over every detail, every plan and every mistake they've made since they told Esbern they'd be heading on a short detour to Riften and ended up extending the trip by an entire week, but eventually his exhaustion catches up. He remembers being afraid of falling asleep earlier, but he can't quite put his finger on the reason now. His eyes drift shut against his will, but he no longer has any strength to stay awake.

_Sleep, little joor._

And if he didn't know better, he'd say the little whisper in his head sounded an awful lot like Mirmulnir. But it can't be, because Larjan is the mute Dragonborn and not even the Grandmaster of the Graybeards had the power to change that... Right?

~~When his eyes close for good, he still doesn't know the answer.~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever to get out, even though I was looking forward to Paarthurnax's return and using that meditation dialogue for a long time. It fit Larjan's situation so well, I just had to. 
> 
> I'm really unhappy with pretty much the entire rest of the chapter. I don't even know what Istha's doing, I'm just trying to type coherent sentences and throw them together into... something. University is taking a harder toll on me than I thought - updates are going to slow down so I can keep up with an absurd amount of math my program requires. I tried to write this chapter quickly, and because of that I feel like its quality went way downhill. I don't know. Maybe I'll be able to get my shit together next month and manage my time better. 
> 
> Well, in any case I know I'll be coming back and editing everything, so I give up. Here is the chapter. Tear it apart, I'm too tired to care right now. Ugh. Good night. Chamerion if you're reading this... I will write you that super long and adoring review. It will happen in the future... At some undefined point. Don't let me forget.
> 
> P.S. Next chapter is also going to be from Larjan's point of view. They were supposed to get back to Windhelm in this chapter but idk, too many words. Anyway, that chapter needs to be in his perspective so I'm making an exception from the alternating template I've had up until now.


	8. Promises Made - Part 2

Larjan sits on High Hrothgar's steps, sheltered from the wind by its imposing walls, and waits.

There is a strange sort of peace to being left to the wild's mercy, and he tries to use it to meditate the way Arngeir showed him so many moons ago. But he's about as successful with that as he is with Shouting, which is to say, not at all. And in any case, there's no longer any point to working to impress the Graybeards. Istha saw to that.

When they returned from the Throat of the World, staggering against each other and in Istha's case, coughing up blood, the four monks had been awake and waiting. When Arngeir had firmly asked them never to return, Larjan had taken the exile with expectant disappointment. The only thing he is grateful for is Istha's temporary muteness. They've already done enough to anger the Graybeards. He doesn't need her mouthing off at them as well.

Just as he thinks this, the door behind him creaks open and the Dark Elf herself plops down into the snow next to him. Her cheeks are flushed purple with anger and she is clutching the wine bottle in her hands hard enough that he is worried she might break it.

"All packed?" Larjan asks dully. She nods, still refusing to look at him. He sighs. "Then we should go. Leave Arngeir to his new disciples."

Istha gives a snort and takes a long swig of the bottle in her hand. Larjan almost wants to ask if the mountain flower tea he boiled for her is helping with her hoarse throat, but then he reminds himself that he's mad at Istha, and therefore should try not to care quite so much. She was the one who stubbornly insisted that they keep pushing to reach High Hrothgar when they woke that morning, and now as far as Larjan cares, she can deal with the toll it took on her Voice herself.

"The Graybeards didn't deserve this," he says finally. "None of the people whose lives you toyed with deserved it."

Istha only shrugs carelessly and turns her face away, busying herself with the bottle of tea. Larjan feels his anger like a dull ache in his stomach, but can say nothing. He stands, brushing snow off, and hefts his pack onto his shoulders. He ignores the chaff against the scars on his back, and begins the trek down the mountain to Ivarstead.  
  
After a moment, he hears the crunch of snow underfoot as Istha follows. He doesn't look back.

 

..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The rest of their journey to Windhelm passes uneventfully, and they arrive at the great walled city late the next evening. As Istha dismounts in view of the stables and the great, bleached dragon skeleton that is still sprawled at Windhelm's doorstep, he lays a hand on her shoulder and pulls her short.

"Return the horses and apologize," he tells her. "And pay their full price, dammit."

"Why should I?" she responds hoarsely. "In case you've forgotten, Betso is _my_ horse." They bicker until she sullenly agrees to do so. Larjan would regret making her the healing tea every few hours if there weren't other... benefits. The silence they traveled in at the beginning of the trip was surprisingly refreshing.

Slightly mollified, Larjan finally lets them continue onto the bridge when Istha returns from the stables with a flushed, angry face. He definitely does not think about the fact that part of the reason he made Istha return the horses is because he can't yet face the young High Elf woman who works there.

"The Altmer bitch threatened to call the guards on me," she fumes as they make their way towards the city gates. "Said they'd hang me for stealing a horse."

Larjan grunts non-committally and walks beside her to the gates. Inside, it's clear to see Windhelm has been busy since they left. Larjan glances down the street that leads to the marketplace and is pleased to see activity there, rebuilding the stands and cleaning debris left over from Viinturuth's attack. A gaping hole in Candlehearth Hall's roof is being repaired, and most of the fallen rock and wreckage has been cleared off the streets. There are too many new gravestones in the graveyard they pass through, the names etched into stone still bearing clean, sharp edges unworn by wind and rain.

That will come in time.

Ulfric Stormcloak is deeply engrained in argument with his housecarl when they enter the Palace of Kings. Istha grimaces in their direction and slips off to find Jorlief, saying there might be a chance they can get a bounty reward for arranging the death of that giant. Larjan blanks out for a moment before remembering the giant they not-so-accidentally recruited to help them bring down the dragon at Bonestrewn Crest.

"The notice said that he had permission to live in peace," Larjan reminds her.

"Doesn't hurt to try," Istha retorts, and flounces off to ask. Larjan lets her go.

Both Ulfric and Galmar straighten and end their discussion as Larjan approaches, though Galmar's disgruntled face is at odds with the calm patience on Ulfric's.

"Welcome, Dragonborn Larjan," Ulfric says dryly. "Did you find what you were looking for? I thought you would have made better time on the backs of my horses. We were beginning to fear something had happened to you."

"Something did, no thanks to Istha," Larjan responds. "But we dealt with it. Those horses have been returned to the stables and paid for, by the way. It's the closest thing to an apology I could get for you."

"If I may be entirely honest with you, Larjan," Ulfric says with a significant glance towards Galmar. "Theft of that scale is a hanging offence. But her role as Dragonborn makes it difficult for us to hang her."

"I meant to speak to you about that, actually. How would you feel about throwing Istha in jail? Not for long, obviously, there is too much work to do... A night or two," Larjan asks quietly, his voice trailing off as both Ulfric and Galmar suppress surprised laughter. The Jarl sobers quickly and adopts a thoughtful expression.

"I can see why you think it might do her good, but... The dragon attack last week cost us a great deal of strong soldiers. How can you guarantee we won't lose more just trying to arrest her?"

Larjan spreads his palms for the two Stormcloaks to see, revealing dark purple stains on his palms and fingers.

"I've picked up a few tricks from her. Jazbay grapes," he explains. "Useful for inhibiting magical abilities. I've been making her tea over the last few days. She wanted to learn about alchemy on the way, so I took a hands-on approach. As for her Voice, I trust her enough that she won't use it on guards in the middle of a city."  
  
"You planned this," Galmar says, and is that grudging approval Larjan hears in the burly man's voice?

Larjan concedes, nodding slightly.

"We've wasted a lot of time running around without a plan," Larjan says. "And after the dragon attack here in Windhelm, I've started wondering how much damage we've allowed to happen. We finally have a plan now and new allies. I can't let Istha ruin that."

"Well spoken, Dragonborn. Speaking of your allies... this Esbern of yours has taken up residence in my court mage's vacancy. You'll find him pouring over Wuunferth's library, I believe."

"Thank you," Larjan says. "But there's something else I have to attend to before I search for him."

Just then, Istha returns, stomping into the Great Hall. Her irritated expression informs Larjan that the giant whose impromptu death they arranged was, in fact, not supposed to be killed. He could have told her that himself. Larjan says nothing as the guards standing at the hall's doors step forward at Ulfric's raised hand. As expected, Istha startles at the uniformed men and women who surround her, and a peculiar purple void ripples from her palms upwards. For a moment her arms seem to vanish into thin air, before her spell runs out of energy and all of her is visible again.

"What? What's going on? Larjan!" Istha calls, fighting in vain against the grip of many hands.

"You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people," a guard says gruffly. "What say you in your defense?"

"I say you get your hands off of me! Larjan, help!"

He is quiet as the many hands eventually restrain her, and try as she might, the faint wisps of magic she manages to gather together aren't strong enough to form a proper spell and she slumps, exhausted, in the arms of the guards. Larjan follows a short distance behind as the Stormcloaks usher her through a heavy door to the side and along stooping corridors. He's surprised at first that the jail can only be reached through the guards' barracks, but in the end realizes it's a good defense strategy against breakouts.

As they descend the stairs into the jail, Istha renews her efforts to fight back, but the door to the first cell is already open and waiting, an inevitable invitation.

“Wait,” Larjan says, and the guards stop and turn just before the cell, even though he has no real authority here beyond his claim as Dragonborn. The Wolf bristles under the gaze of so many, but Larjan pushes the tight coil of apprehension in his stomach away and steps forward, eyes fixed on Istha.

The half-smile she gives him as he approaches nearly makes him call this entire thing off, tell Ulfric that he was joking and that Istha didn't mean any of it and they'll take their leave now – but he's let himself by tossed around by both circumstance and Istha's meddling for too long. It's time for him to take control. So he determinedly looks through Istha, past the slight, hopeful curve of her lips and the red glow of her eyes, and reaches towards her with his good hand.

He can tell the exact moment that she catches on, her gaze focusing on his exposed palm, can see her expression shift from gratitude to anger as she processes the purple stains on his skin and the fingers that reach towards her braid. The smile disappears with a snarl, but even as she jerks her head away, Larjan unravels the tie holding her braid together at the end and the straight strands of hair fall apart. She tries to bite him as he combs his hand through her hair, his fingers catching on the sliver of metal that was woven into her braid, and he only narrowly avoids giving her an accidental taste of the Beast Blood.

“You filthy traitor!” she cries as Larjan steps away, tucking the lockpick away into his boot. She calls him other names as well, far crueler ones, ones he does his best to ignore as the guards pat down the rest of her, confiscating weapons and the lockpicks hidden in more obvious places.

He has a job to do.

One of the guards in the barracks having a drink at a table looks up as he enters, raising the tankard in salute.

“Hail, Dragonborn.”

“Ah, thank you," he says awkwardly. "Do you by any chance know where I could find a mercenary for hire in this city?”

“A mercenary? Look for Stenvar, in Candlehearth Hall. Pricey, but a good man to have at your back," the guard says. Larjan thanks him and wanders off, frowning. _Pricey_ , the guard said. Larjan is starting to wish that he looted dungeons on a regular basis, or that he'd kept Istha's potions instead of breaking them all, or that he hadn't insisted on being so damn honorable and paying for the horses.

He runs through his gear mentally, thinking of what he could sell. The list is pitifully short. He could probably set Istha loose in the city for a day or two and have her return with more than enough gold, but he has _morals_ to live by, no matter how much time he spends around her. With a long-suffering sigh, he decides he'll go speak with this Stenvar anyway, in case by some miracle, the hired muscle is attainable. Larjan doesn't know what they'll do if he's not. With the loss of his Voice and a still-weak hand, Istha's unpredictability and inexperience in close quarter combat, and Esbern's age, they're nowhere near prepared to make the trek into Skyrim's west, where the Thalmor presence is so strong.

Candlehearth Hall is as lit and inviting as always, and Larjan is so pleased by the wave of warmth that washes over his face as he opens the door that he doesn't notice the High Elf woman in front of him until he's run into her. It's the stable hand he avoided earlier, and seeing her bronzed skin and the irritated look she gives him now makes his throat close up.

"Beg your pardon," she says, stepping around him lightly and reaching for the door.

"Sorry," Larjan responds, his voice coming out a little strangled. For civility's sake, he forces himself to add, "Enjoy your walk."

He heads up the stairs to the loft, eyeing every armoured patron he passes. The most likely candidate is an older man nursing a tankard of drink at a corner table. The man sets his tankard down when he catches Larjan staring at him and gives him a smile like a sabrecat.

"May I join you?" Larjan asks, already pulling out the other chair at the table and sitting.

"Forward. I like that," the man drawls, chuckling. He eyes the dents and worn grooves in Larjan's armour, seemingly approving of the carved wolf that juts out at his collarbone. "I've seen you around. You're Dragonborn, aren't you?"

Well, if exploiting his fame gets him a lower price...

"That I am," Larjan says. "And if I'm right, you're Stenvar the mercenary."

"Aye," Stenvar says, puffing his steel-covered chest out proudly. "Look no further, kid. There's no stronger sword-arm for hire in all Skyrim."

"So I've heard. Say I wanted you to escort me and my friends to Karthwarsten. What's your price?"

"Karthwarsten? What's a hero like you doing looking for a tiny little mining village like that?" Stenvar asks with a booming laugh.

"Keep your voice down, please," Larjan says with a wince. "We're not truly going to Karthwarsten, just somewhere nearby."

"Hmph," Stenvar replies. "500 gold."

There go Larjan's hopes of a discount for his fame. It seems Stenvar appreciates material comforts more than quickly-lost things like glory. _Smart man_. Larjan eases his pack off his shoulders and rummages through it, ignoring Stenvar's attentive gaze on its contents. There's hardly any gold left, enough for a few nights at an inn, maybe minor armour reparations, certainly not enough for a good mercenary. Larjan is just about to give up and apologize for using up the man's time, when his fingers catch on a heavy chain.

He exclaims in happiness as he draws out the mysterious amulet that clued him into Wuunferth's identity as the Butcher of Windhelm.

"I forgot I held onto this!" he says, leaning forward to display the amulet to Stenvar. "Callixto said he'd give me 500 gold for it when I asked him to appraise it, but I wanted to wait until the Butcher was in jail, and then I got distracted by the dragon..."

"Good enough for me," Stenvar says, taking the amulet with a casual shrug. He grins at Larjan as he pockets it, a hard glint in his eye. "My blade is sharp and I thirst for a good battle. Opinionated fellow like you is bound to attract some trouble along the way, aye? Onward, friend."

Stenvar downs the rest of his tankard in an impressively small number of gulps and stands, prompting Larjan to lead. The bartender calls out to them as they head towards the door, asking if they won't stay a little while longer, spend a little more coin. Larjan isn't sure how to turn her down, but Stenvar waves her off with an amused chuckle.

Larjan is surprised to see the sky already growing purple when they exit out into the cool air. Night will be upon them soon. He turns to make sure Stenvar is still following, and it's because he's looking over his shoulder at his new company that Stenvar is the first one who notices the danger. Before Larjan can react, Stenvar is already running ahead with a yell, pulling the attacker off a whimpering woman slumped against the wall. The Wolf rears its head at the scent of blood, and Larjan clenches his hands into tight fists as he runs forward. Stenvar seems to have the attacker taken care of, holding him tightly in a chokehold, so Larjan bends over the woman, and does a double-take when he realizes it's the High Elf stablehand - and there's so much blood.

"Please..." she says, and Larjan forces his eyes away from her face, to the dagger buried to the hilt in her stomach.

"It's okay, you're safe now," he promises emptily, pressing his hands against the wound. He knows better than to take the dagger out, but not much more than that, used to leaving the healing to Istha. Louder, he yells, "Guards! Guards!"

The thunder of boots on stone heralds the arrival of the Stormcloaks, and as they arrive Larjan steps backwards, all too glad to put some space between him and the High Elf. They'll get her to the apothecary, make sure she's safe. He can't bear to face her any longer.

 _She's not her_ , he tells himself. _She's not ~~Elenwen~~_. But it's easier to say than to believe.

He turns towards Stenvar instead, only to stop cold when a nearby lantern illuminates the face of the attacker.

"Does this mean I can't sell my amulet?" Stenvar asks seriously, tightening his hold on the man when he tries to spit on Larjan.

"Fuck," Larjan says.

  
................................................................................................................................................................................................................

  
In the end, they gather in the dungeon.

It's a little bit awkward at first, because Calixto is in the cell next to Istha and screams insults at Larjan until he breaks off coughing violently and eventually loses his voice, and also because Istha won't even turn around from the back corner of her own cell.

Esbern is the only one who seems completely unaffected by the tension in the jail, calmly unwrapping a parcel of smoked venison and offering everyone a taste. Larjan passes on the offer, his Wolf wrinkling its nose at the strong scent of woodsmoke, and sits on top of a crate as Esbern spreads a large map on the ground between them.

"I've already sent a letter ahead to Delphine explaining our delay. She called us unprofessional, of course, you know she likes to be curt, but she's really quite soft at heart," Esbern explains. "In any case, her reply said she'll be meeting up with us in Whiterun. She had to flee Riverwood when a passing Thalmor patrol got a little too interested in her inn."

"This Delphine is good in a fight, I assume?" Stenvar asks.

"She and I brought down a dragon, if that answers your question," Larjan answers.

"Just the two of you?"

"I could wield a sword back then," Larjan admits, wriggling the stumps of his injured fingers at Stenvar. The mercenary is good at hiding his pity, and Larjan is thankful for that.

Meanwhile, Istha has finally left her corner and is now sitting as close to the bars as she can, leaning forward so she can see the map as well. However, Larjan knows her grudge is far from forgotten, because she still stubbornly refuses to look at him while he speaks, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Esbern or Stenvar as they debate the best route to take. Esbern wants to stay off the roads entirely, while Stenvar argues that the trip will take forever through the wilderness. When the argument seems to have gotten to a standstill, Istha reaches through the bars and picks up the knife that Esbern used on his venison chop and tries to use it to point out a rarely-used pass through the mountainous Reach that will save them a day or two of travel. Larjan smacks it out of her hand, giving her a pointed look.

"Prisoners aren't allowed to have anything with them in the cells," he reminds her. Istha bares her teeth, showing him exactly what she thinks of his new attitude.

"Fuck off."

"Calm down, children," Esbern chides, retrieving his knife with a frown.

"I'm older than any of you, anyway!" Istha retorts.

"You wouldn't know it just from watching," Stenvar says behind his hand to Larjan, and the young Nord has to force his lips not to twitch into a smile because the glare Istha is giving him is making him think that maybe he should let her stew in jail for an extra day or two or risk being hexed in his sleep. Esbern then packs up and excuses himself, telling the others that they'll need their rest at his age as well. Stenvar sticks around a little while longer, apparently fascinated by the tiny gold studs in Istha's ears - _do you take them out when you need to pay for something? - What, no! These are mine. Back off!_ \- but he eventually senses that Larjan is waiting for him to clear out, and departs with a cheery farewell, telling the two Dragonborns that he'll be in Candlehearth Hall when they're ready to set off.

Istha is silent as Larjan scoots forward, sitting crosslegged on the other side of the bars from her. Even Calixto's mumbling is hardly audible now.

"How mad at me are you right now?" Larjan asks softly, reaching forward and grasping the thick bars with his hands. Istha's gaze flickers up to his face, dances briefly between his eyes, and drops down again. "Istha?"

"Pretty mad," she says eventually, her voice low and tired. "A little bit impressed, because I didn't think you had it in you to out-scheme me, but mostly mad."

"Do you understand why I put you in here?"

"Because you're an asshole," she replies.

"I am not an asshole," Larjan replies automatically, without even pausing to consider the less than savory things he's done in order to get to this point.

"Yes you are. I trusted you, and you put me in this dungeon."

"And I trusted you! And you've roped me into countless illegal acts, drugged me in Riften and nearly got yourself killed, and then you drugged the Greybeards - for Shor's sake, Istha, the Greybeards, and got us exiled from High Hrothgar - "

"Why are those old monks so important, anyway, huh?" Istha interrupts, her voice raised over Larjan. "They haven't helped us at all, and they smell like - "

" _I'm not finished_ ," Larjan growls - really _growls_. Istha grows very quiet very quickly, and its only the horror that his human side feels at seeing the terror in her crimson eyes that gives Larjan the strength to rein in the Wolf. He pauses for a moment to close his eyes and turn his head away, taking shallow breaths because the Wolf can smell fear stronger than the scent of the jail's rats or the piss in the cell buckets, and Larjan can't allow that.

When he opens his eyes again, Istha has scooted back from the bars and drawn her knees up to her chin, curling in on herself like a child. She doesn't meet his gaze.

"I'm not finished," Larjan says again, much calmer this time. "You left me behind when the Greybeards rejected you. I know that wasn't fair of them, but gods Istha, it wasn't fair of you either. And I've been trying very hard not to blame you for what you did, but I keep thinking that if you had been there, Lydia might not have died and I wouldn't have nearly died in that godsdamned dungeon. And I feel like a bad person for thinking like that, but you know what Istha? You're not helping. You're not exactly painting yourself to be some kind of selfless hero."

"No, I leave that to you," Istha mutters, still refusing to turn her head towards him.

Larjan sighs and leans his head against the cell bars because he needs Istha to understand, needs to stop doubting himself and her and both them together, needs it like he needs water.

"Istha," he calls softly. "Please look at me."

"I don't want to talk."

"Look."

She uncurls reluctantly and only partially, eyes gleaming sullenly at him over the tops of her knees.

"I need you to trust me. And I need to trust you," Larjan says, swallowing what feels like an entire chicken's egg in his throat. "And we can't do that if we keep going back and forth like this, without civility or respect or honesty. I... I can't keep doing this. So if I can't trust you... I'm leaving you here, and I'm going to go fight Alduin on my own. And I'm going to die, and he's going to eat the world, and it's just generally not a pleasant outcome for anyone."

"You're not fighting him alone," Istha says sternly, apparently so incensed by the mere thought that she crawls forward, grabbing the bars and glaring at him as she rattles the metal door.

"I will if the alternative is fighting you and your schemes every other day," Larjan retorts. "So stop dancing around the topic, Istha. Can I trust you or not?"

"What kind of question is that?" she replies instantly.

"A perfectly reasonable one, considering your behaviour," Larjan says. "Promise me."

The silence stretches on long enough that the guard behind them begins to cough awkwardly and mumble about not getting paid enough for this. Larjan sighs heavily and moves to stand, unable to bear this any longer. Istha's hand darts out and grabs his ankle with the practiced precision of a pickpocket.

"Wait," Istha says, staring at the grimy stone between his feet. "I want my potions back. And I get a say in planning. And you tell that mercenary to stop asking for my earrings."

"I will feed you each and every single stamina poison I find in your possession," Larjan threatens, pronouncing every syllable with undeniable clarity.

"Fine," she responds, and Larjan can't help but feel like a healing spell has just washed over him, melting away the soreness in his back and easing the cramp in his hand that never quite fades away. He even checks the hand that Istha still has clasped around his ankle, just to make sure, but there's no golden glow there.

He sits again, carefully, as she lets go.

"Larjan," she says softly. He looks up as she reaches for his injured hand, the one that he always tries to keep pressed to him like the rest of his body can mask the void there. "I promise. I don't try to be a bad person, it just..."

"Happens?" he supplies helpfully. She sighs, ashy eyelashes fluttering shut in exasperation.

"I'm trying to do good in this world! I just use different methods than you do. And I recognize that sometimes they're a little... brutally efficient. I can try to work on that. For you," she says, gaze cast down to their hands clasped in the gap between bars.

Her dark hand is warm in Larjan's and he tries not to focus on that fact, listening instead to her words. It is too easy, when they're this close and her scent is intoxicating his Wolf in the worst possible way, to remember kissing her at the Throat of the World. And they will need to talk about that, but there will be time for that later. What he needs at this very moment is simply her friendship.

"Thank you," he says. The guard at his back makes something that sounds suspiciously like a happy sigh, and Larjan thinks to himself that if he wakes the next morning to find his tumultuous relationship with Istha on everyone's lips, he's going to need to brawl someone.

"And..." Istha adds uncertainly, finally looking up at him. "I'm sorry. For leaving you behind. I'm so, so sorry for everything that happened because of that, and I'm going to try to make it up to you. I just... I didn't feel ready for any of this."

"Do you now?" Larjan asks.

"Azura, _no_ ," she responds with a breathy laugh, and despite himself Larjan cracks a smile as well, a smile that blossoms into a grin he has to momentarily duck his head to hide.

"So how do you feel about paying a visit to the temple of the ancient Blades and getting ready?"

"I'd like that," Istha says. "I'd also like it if a certain someone let me out of jail..."

"Not a chance," Larjan says smugly. Istha curses quietly, but her lips are still stubbornly curved upwards into a smile.

"What would your admirers think if they knew their brave and honourable hero let a maiden sleep in a dungeon while he slept on a proper bed?" Istha teases. Larjan shrugs and finally lets go of her hand, missing its warmth even as he stands and walks into the empty cell next to Istha and drags out the ratty cow pelt that covers the floor there.

He feels the questioning gazes of both Istha and the guard on duty on him as he stretches it out in front of Istha's cell and then begins to unroll his bedroll on top of it.

"Sir, there is more than enough room upstairs for you," the guard says nervously, evidently wondering if their job is on the line if the Stormcloaks' namesake hears about this.

"It's all right," Larjan says as Istha drags her own makeshift bed closer to the front of the cell. "We have each other's backs."

And for the first time in a long time, Larjan is entirely certain of that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves* Hi guys. I'm going to very tentatively announce my long hiatus over, though it really depends on how the next few weeks go. Thanks for being patient while I tried to figure out how to adult.
> 
> One thing I can promise you for certain is that this story is going to be completed, even if it's at a snail's pace. I /have/ to finish it. I wrote the very last two chapters already, and they're my favourite, so I have no choice. Although now that I look back on it... This was a really satisfying chapter to write as well. I've been struggling with Istha's character lately, but I think Larjan set her on the right path with some decisive scheming of his own, and things are gonna go uphill from here. Literally. Lots of mountains coming up.
> 
> I'm sorry for disappearing for so long, but I think I needed that break to fall back in love with this story. So as always, thank you for giving me your time.


	9. Condemnations

"Are you scared? To be here again, I mean."

Larjan doesn't answer for a long time, and Istha can't really blame him for that. It's a difficult question. She waits, lingering at his shoulder as he rests by a gurgling stream, surveying Whiterun's plains with a distant look in his eyes. It is a windy day, and she has to turn her face towards the source of the gusts to keep the stray hairs that have fallen out of her braid out of her face.

Stenvar and Esbern are nearby, pouring over the map they have spread out over a rock as they consider the next portion of the journey. Stenvar's frustration is audible as he suggests the most direct route, but if they speak quietly they will most certainly be out of earshot. Larjan deserves that much.

"No," he says eventually, with so little warning that she is startled. "I have you this time."

Istha grimaces, relieved that he can't see her expression right now, and gives the surrounding plains another survey. There doesn't seem to be anyone nearby but a pack of mammoths and their everpresent shepherd, but that doesn't mean much to an experienced sneak.

"Where did they bury Lydia?" she asks softly, wondering if some of his listlessness will be eased if they visit her grave. He refused to visit his mother's mountainside cabin when they passed Valtheim Towers, but then, some hurts are greater than others.

"They didn't," Larjan responds. "Couldn't find a body. We burned a shield for her in the Skyforge."

And because his voice sounds a little strangled, she drops the subject. She wanders off slightly, no more than a few paces away and always keeping Larjan's hunched form in the corner of her eye. She hasn't left him alone since they crossed into Whiterun Hold and his nightmares grew more violent. Istha wondered at first if he'd grow irritated with her hovering, but instead he seems relieved to have someone at his side, and so she remains.

There's a thatch of lavender growing in the sparse soil between rocky outcroppings, stubbornly defying the thin coating of snow that threatens to freeze them, and she picks a few of the nicer sprigs. Larjan looks up at her as she returns and presses them into his hand like a peace offering. His eyes are shining with a faint layer of moisture.

"I thought someone would hate me for it when I went back to Whiterun. I kept waiting for a mother or father or brother or sister or friend to jump out and condemn me for coming home without her. But no one did. There were a few guards who grumbled, but otherwise..." Larjan trails off quietly, closing his fist tightly around the lavender. "No one said a thing. They looked at me, and they whispered, but no one ever said anything to my face. There was no one to miss her enough to face me. I think that's why Jarl Balgruuf gave her to me."

"He couldn't have known she'd die," Istha argues. Larjan winces minutely, and she bites her lip in regret. She joins him on the rock he's sitting on and leans her head against his shoulder, offering the safest form of comfort she knows. "Maybe it's better that way. Less grieving people left behind."

"No, I think that made it worse. It was like she had never even existed. She died trying to protect me, and she was hardly recognized for that. Makes you wonder if anyone will care if we die fighting Alduin, beyond being inconvenienced that we didn't manage to stop the world from ending," Larjan says, a hint of bitter sarcasm entering his voice at the end.

"I'd care if you died," Istha mutters, lifting up her head to look at him. "And I like to think you'd care about me, even if you occasionally lock me in jail cells."

"I would care, you know that," Larjan says. "And the jail cell was perfectly deserved, stop holding it against me. But in any case... Anything that manages to kill one of us will probably get the other too."

Just then, Esbern spots a single silhouette making its way towards them from the hill that Whiterun perches upon. Map forgotten, everyone waits for the arrival of their final party member, this Delphine Istha has heard so much about. Larjan looks pleased to see her approaching, but then, Larjan tends to like most people, so Istha will wait to form her own opinion of the mysterious woman.

Her gaze drifts away from the figure still crossing the stretch of the plains, and back to Larjan's face. Though she tolerates the presence of these new people that have joined their company, the only person she's here for is Larjan.

_Nothing's going to kill us_ , she vows. _Not till we face Alduin himself, at the very least. I promise you that._

 

  
.........................................................................................................................................................

 

  
Complications arise when they reach the spot where, if Esbern's calculations are correct, Sky Haven Temple should be awaiting them. Istha keeps a wary lookout as the others once again pull their maps out and argue in hushed tones, one hand on her bow. What should have been an abandoned temple is very much not abandoned, and judging by the extensive network of wooden platforms and boardwalks across the Karth river, has not been abandoned for a long time.

The mention of Forsworn leaves a bad taste in Istha's mouth, reminding her only of Markarth and silver-tongued nobles with blood-stained mines. She wonders how Cynric is doing now, if he's broken out of any jails recently, and then pushes that away from her mind firmly. She has no energy to spare for worrying about the Thieves Guild she left behind, not when scores of Forsworn stand between them and Sky Haven Temple.

"This has to be it," Esbern mutters. "We could go upstream a few hour's walk, try to circle around the mountain and search for another entrance..."

Larjan joins Istha at the lookout as the two Blades debate, and when his eyes taken on an amber hue, she knows he's using his werewolf senses to get a better look.

"There's a cave across the river," he murmurs to her. "Small, but the steps leading up to it are no accident. There are two sentinels guarding its mouth, but most of the Forsworn are down by the river."

"There's surely more inside," Istha replies grimly. "Unless... Unless there's a reason some of them are camped out on the river and not all inside the cave."

"No way for us to find out, unfortunately," Larjan responds, and Istha relaxes slightly as his eyes regain their palid blue colouring and turn on her. "If they don't let us pass, it's not just numbers we have to worry about. I can smell something else... Not sure what it is, but it smells like carrion and strong magic, different from what you and Esbern use. Nothing friendly has that kind of smell."

Istha bites her lip instead of responding, her gaze already plotting out a route from the hidden ridge they are currently nestled in to the worn stone steps across the river. Larjan's mention of strong magic worries her, but nonetheless she thinks she might be able to get past the Forsworn camp if she can maintain an invisibility spell that long. She hasn't practiced in a long time, but her reserves of magic are full and flowing today.

"I've got an idea," she begins carefully. "But you're not going to like it."

"Nope," Larjan replies. "It's not happening, I don't even want to hear about it."

"Larjan!" Istha says in protest, tearing her gaze away from the camp in order to glare at him.

Delphine materializes at her elbow on her other side nearly as silently as a Khajiit. Istha draws away from the other woman, but to her surprise the older Breton simply looks pensive.

"What are you thinking, Dragonborn?"

Istha takes a moment to breathe in deeply, seeing the eyes of everyone in their party fixed upon her.

"We all know we'd rather not take our chances with this fight," Istha begins.

"Speak for yourself," Stenvar interrupts. "This is what you paid me for, isn't it?"

"No, we paid you to keep us alive," Istha retorts, wrinkling her nose in disapproval and speaking over his resulting mutters. "But it's going to be difficult for you to do that unless we can use the cover of night to our advantage. If we can get everyone to the cave, we should be good, it'll be easier for us to defend ourselves if we have to."

"How do we know there aren't more Forsworn living inside?" Delphine questions, her eyes as sharp as flint on Istha.

"That's where I come in," Istha admits. "I'm strong in illusion magic. I think I can keep up an invisibility spell long enough to get up there and take a look around, see if I can plan a route for us to get past. In any case, we won't know what to do next without more information."

"And if your magic suddenly runs out and you find yourself perfectly visible in the middle of the camp?" Larjan asks wryly, the arms crossed over his chest telling Istha exactly what he thinks of her idea.

"Then I suppose I'll have to deal with that then," she says.

"How do we know the Forsworn aren't open to simply letting us in?" Esbern questions. "Delphine, you're Breton. Will that mean anything to them?"

"In the company of three Nords and an Elf?" Delphine responds with a snort. "Hardly. The Bretons here in the Reach are defensive. I can't say I blame them, given their situation, but it doesn't make our life any easier."

“So let me take a look at the cave,” Istha insists. “Let me see if it’s save for us to get into tonight, and then we won’t have to go through the Forsworn.”

“You do realize, Dragonborn,” Delphine says, speaking as though she chooses her next words very carefully under Larjan’s furious glare. “That if your spells fail you in the middle of that camp, you will be surrounded by very surprised, very hostile Forsworn warriors all by yourself? We won’t be able to get to you immediately, and even when we do, we may not be able to make a difference.”

“If that happened I’d summon an atronach to keep them busy and jump into the river,” Istha responds. “But it won’t happen, so you needn’t worry. My spells have never failed me yet.”

“I don’t like this, Istha,” Larjan says, reaching for her arm and pulling her back when she makes to leave. “We talked about you charging headfirst into these kinds of things.”

Istha pauses, looking at his hand clamped around the narrow width of her elbow. His nails are just slightly too long and too dark, a visible manifestation of his werewolf form under stress.

“It’ll be fine,” she insists. “Take care of yourself if things do go wrong, Silver-Eyes,” she adds, tacking on his surname at the end as a subtle reminder that she’d like his gaze to stay silver and not turn to golden-amber.

And then she is tugging at the invisible strings that tie her to the magical plane, gathering energy tightly into her palms and holding it there as her hands seem to melt away in front of her. She can hear Stenvar mutter about magic not being right, but ignores him in favour of standing and stepping over the rocks that hide them, finally free to stretch her limbs.

Invisibility still has the same drain on the back of her mind, a creeping but steady fatigue that lets her know that she doesn’t have time for such luxuries - it’s time to get to the yawning mouth of the cave at the top of the stairs, quickly. Despite the confidence she displayed in front of the company, she knows she’s just not strong enough of a mage to make the trip both to and from the cave invisible. She can only hope that there’s somewhere in the cave where she can pause to rest and down a magicka potion or two before attempting to return.

Istha steps lightly along the edge of the slope leading down to a single ragged hut at the foot of what looks like a sacrificial alter, making a beeline for the wooden boardwalk that crosses the river. She thanks Azura and whoever else still listens to her cursed people for the Breton woman hammering away at the anvil like her life depends on it - though the pounding beat echoes throughout the gorge and grates on her nerves, it does a fine job of drowning out her footsteps from the Forsworn warriors who languish at the bridge’s opening, laughing and talking with one another in a musical language she does not understand.

It’s always a peculiar sensation to be completely ignored in broad daylight by so many people, but Istha tells herself it’s well worth the numbness that’s starting to affect her fingertips.

She encounters her first obstacle in the form of a hanging bridge. The boardwalk connecting two sections of the wooden platforms ends abruptly, leaving a short stretch where the boards lie limply on lengths of twine. Istha suppresses the curse that threatens to bubble out from between her lips as her toes stop just short of the bridge. There’s no way for her to make it across without the individual planks that make up the bridge jingling.

She takes a deep breath, and runs across.

Larjan’s disapproval echoes in her head as clearly as if he’d been standing right beside her, but Istha is already on the other side, stepping away from the bridge as lightly as she can and crouching in the shelter of a row of barrels as two nearby Forsworn notice the bridge moving by itself and come to investigate, peering at it curiously and nudging it with the toes of their bare feet.

Seconds turn to minutes and an uncomfortable pressure builds up in Istha’s head, before one of the warriors gestures to the fast-moving clouds in the sky and the other shrugs, turning his back on the bridge. She breathes out in relief, just as her nose begins to drip visible blood onto the wood in front of her. She abruptly stops breathing, not daring to clamp a hand over her face lest she disrupt the delicate spell, and looks back at the oblivious Forsworn. They unknowingly walk right past her, so close that the air displaced by their legs plays with the ends of the hair that’s escaped from Istha’s braid and one of their heels nearly steps in the red droplet that is now sinking into the wood.

Istha follows behind as closely as she dares, now painfully aware that her time is running out. She can just imagine the others waiting on the ledge beginning to get nervous, but forces herself to focus on her own calm.

There is only one thing to do. She creeps along the last remaining stretch of boardwalk and steps foot onto the other side of the shore. _Larjan said there were only two guards outside the cave._ _I can do this_ , Istha tells herself, eyeing the flights of stairs going up the side of the mountain.

By the time she has nearly reached the top, her limbs are shaking with the effort of maintaining the spell, and blood is running freely from her nose down her chin and onto the embroidery on her robes. If only today were a more overcast day, she could relax for a moment in the shadow of some rock and staunch the stubborn bleeding, but the sun is unusually determined for this time of year and provides her with no shelter.

It is by no small miracle that the guards at the cave’s mouth don’t hear her ragged breathing as she slinks towards the darkness. They are too focused on the fire they are stroking in a small pit, reaching their hands out and warming them in its glow. Istha hardly spares them a second glance as the shadows open up to embrace her.

Unfortunately, there is only a small section of darkness afforded to her.

Istha releases her spell in a sheltered alcove out of view from both the mouth of the cave and the warm orange glow within the cave that indicates a campfire nearby. A wave of dizziness washes over her, nearly making her groan aloud, but luckily her mouth is already muffled by the hands seeking to assess the blood that is now coating the lower half of her face in sticky, metallic-tasting rivulets.

She grasps weakly at her pack for a magicka potion, the aching pressure in her skull fading even as she swallows it all in greedy gulps. She waits there another few moments for the strength to return to her shaky limbs, content that even though she will be easily visible if one of the Forsworn decides to stroll past, she is well-hidden for the time being.

When she feels stronger, she sits on her heels and peeks around the curve of the stone tunnel. Her spell-casting is not perfectly silent, unfortunately, and someone who knew what they were looking for would likely be able to hear her cast a complicated spell, but at this distance, she feels confident enough in her near-silence that she only hesitates another moment before shrouding herself in void.

The interior of the cave in nearly deserted at this time of the day, most of the Forsworn out and about on their duty, but there are still two young Bretons tending to something bubbling and foul-smelling in a pot over a fire. Istha creeps past them as they are engrossed in whatever that decidedly unedible-looking thing is, and turns instead to counting bed rolls. She estimates only a few Forsworn sleep here at night, most sticking to the fur huts on the boardwalk outside. She's concentrating so hard on picturing the route she will lead the others through the cave that she doesn't notice the sleeping man until it's almost too late.

She freezes in place, her fear nearly causing her to lose her invisibility spell, but the man continues to slumber peacefully, stretched out on a bed with an elaborate chest at its foot. Both his lodgings and the impressive headdress that lies discarded on the bed beside him mark him as high up in Forsworn ranking, whatever those may be. And there's something... _odd_ about him. Something that makes her think of curdled milk and the sound of breathing in sealed tombs where nothing else should be breathing...

Istha swallows down the thick feeling of fear in her throat and tiptoes past the bed. She may slit his throat on her way back, just to ease the rotten _wrongness_ that comes off of him in waves, but for now there's no sense in risking alerting the Forsworn to her presence. She still has to find if there's a path for them to take tonight.

At first glance, there doesn't seem to be anything. But then Istha feels the faintest draft on the back of her neck, and it's not coming from the mouth of the cave.

She gives the sleeping man one last nervous glance, and presses the back of her hands against the packed dirt wall, keeping her spell going in her palms. It is solid beneath her skin, but that draft was no figment of her imagination, and so she shifts, feeling along veins of rock and dirt. She wonders if perhaps she should drop the invisibility spell and try one of the tricks Tolfdir taught her - how to seek ore embedded in the stone and draw it out to purify it into something usable - the dirt here is so rich in iron that she thinks any gap where she wouldn't be able to sense iron would likely be air, and therefore an opening.

But just then, the wall gives beneath Istha's hand. Her eyes widen as she realizes there is only loose dirt and foliage standing between her and the draft. With a deep breath, she shoulders aside the hanging moss that drapes over the obscured opening, and finds herself in a dark passage.

After a moment of hesitation, she drops the invisibility spell, and casts a candlelight instead, wiping blood from her face as the tiny orb of blue light illuminates the narrow tunnel. It is short, forcing her to duck so that her head doesn't scrape the dirt ceiling, and she resists the urge to laugh at the image of Larjan or Stenvar trying to make their way through this just in case there are more Forsworn up ahead.

The breeze grows stronger as the tunnel twists sharply and descends, and Istha has a moment to wonder at that - _fresh air coming from the earth?_ But then her light fizzles and extinguishes, and she realizes there is the faintest light at the end of the passage.

She walks faster now, still as silently as she can, not daring to replace the candlelight.

When the passage opens up into a giant chamber, she can't help but gasp. At its opposite end are the undeniable signs of ancient existence, the facade of a once-magnificent building carved into the stone.

"Sky Haven Temple," Istha whispers to herself, and when her gaze drifts higher, along the chamber's juniper-covered stone walls to the pale blue sky between, she finds that the name matches perfectly. With a happy grin, she thinks to herself that their company can easily bypass the Forsworn camp, if only they can find the opening in the stone from the surface. Stenvar carries rope, she knows. She's never asked how long his coil extends, but she's sure they could extend it with the Reach's numerous vines if needed and rappel down the walls.

Part of her wants to keep going, to explore the depths of the shadows cast by that stone facade, but she thinks to herself that this is for Larjan as much as it is for her. They should share the first experience. And so she turns her back, forcing herself back into the dark, narrow passage.

At its end, she doesn't immediately cast herself back into invisibility, though she deliberates doing so the entire journey. She peeks out from the shadows of the foliage-draped passage nervously, and finds the strange man still asleep in his bed.

Istha sneaks out, as silent as a ghost and as unnoticed by the two Bretons stirring by the fire as one. In sleep, the man looks strangely serene and innocent, but the hair standing up on the back of her neck doesn't let her accept that appearance. Her gaze drifts to a strange patch on his bare chest, on his left side where his heart should be. It takes her a moment to realize it's a rich, satin-like cloth sewn into his skin, and she resists the urge to shudder. She cannot smell magic like Larjan, but she can still sense it with the same part of her that she uses to bend it to her will, and she does not like whatever is under that patch.

Nor do her dragons.

They do not wake often, usually slumbering until she calls upon them in battle to do her bidding, but as soon as she realizes they are awake in her mind, they waste no time and flitting to the forefront and whisper in her ears.

_Leave_ , Istha. _Leave. This is magic as old as us, perhaps older. We do not want to touch it._

They have never been fearful of anything before, her dragons, or her when she is imbued with their rage. And so, partially out of curiosity, and partially because Istha has never been particularly good at following instruction, she slips a dagger out of her belt, and slits the weak fabric apart. The blade pushes easily into empty space. The man does not move, his chest still falling and rising serenely.

Istha resists the urge to scream, or maybe vomit.

_Leave it leave itleaveit_ , her dragons say. Just because magic does not have a stench to her nose doesn't mean she can't sense what it resembles, and the smell of rotting flesh and festering wounds coming out of the hole in the man's chest is _wrong_.

There is no heart there. There is no beating muscle, no muscle at all. What should be, and always is in everyone else, has been replaced by some kind of red-green plant with peeling leaves, and it beats instead of a heart. It is smaller than one, the size of a child's curled fist, and there is so much empty space around it where the man simply _isn't_ , empty space crisscrossed by the same glittering red thread with which the patch of fabric was sewn to his chest, holding the plant in place.

And then the man's eyes fly open.

Istha has no time to move backwards or shroud herself, because his hand is already wrapping itself around her throat and they hang there in perilous balance, held there like the beating seed in his bleeding chest, and she cannot breathe. Her dragons find the dagger still desperately clutched in her hand, and guide it to the man's chest, where she buries it to the hilt in flesh that bleeds the way a man's should, but still not quite right.

Her choking is silent, the rage in the man's eyes so fixed upon her that the two young Bretons tending to the fire don't notice a thing. Istha claws at the man's hand around her neck but he appears not to notice pain, not the dagger buried in his lung beside the frayed patch, nor the fire with which she sears the muscle off his fingers. Istha's fire fades when his bones still hold on and her own skin starts burning.

With one wild hand, she reaches for the plant suspended inside his chest like a marionette, and tears.

He doesn't die instantly. She watches him rot first, decaying and turning to dust within the span of a terrifying, breathless moment, and even though his eyes are one of the first tissues to go she feels the furious, hateful gaze on her long after the lifeless fingers release her throat.

It takes her another moment of gasping for breath before she hears the shouts coming from the outside of the cave. At first she thinks the death of the Forsworn leader has been noticed, and her air-deprived mind tells her to hide the body - _what body?_ she responds hysterically. _There is no body, just a pile of dust_ \- before the two young Bretons take up arms and run to the mouth of the cave, screaming bloody murder in their strange, lilting language.

Istha wants nothing more than to continue lying on the floor remembering how to suck air into her lungs and trying to forget the sight of a man decaying right before her, but she has a terrible feeling all that noise outside means that Larjan and the others have been discovered.

_If she hadn't taken so long, or stopped to poke at the man with no heart, this wouldn't have happened, and they could have gotten into Sky Haven Temple at night with no trouble!_ she thinks as she stumbles to the front of the cave, gingerly holding her neck.

But this has happened, and now they must face the consequences.

Istha downs another magic potion, groaning as she feels it build in her joints and fingers. She releases a flame atronach, and doesn't wait to watch it glide down the mountain's stairs with deadly grace, pausing only to lob fireballs at attacking Forsworn. She realizes that perhaps she should have chosen a frost atronach instead, seeing the wooden platform go up in flames, but then reasons that a frost one would have been slower, and at the moment, her companions need immediate relief more than they need long-lasting.

She perches at the side of the stairs and draws her bow, feeling the warmth of Daedric smithing wake beneath her touch. She has a good vantage point from the mountain, but it is hard to deal with the Forsworn fighting in close quarters with her companions. She leaves them be, trusting in their ability, and turns instead to the long-range magic casters. There is a woman atop the smithing platform that seems particularly skilled with ice spikes, and Istha grimly lets three arrows loose into her bare stomach before she loses the strength to heal herself and falls backwards into the forge, the fire killing whatever Istha couldn't.

Meanwhile, Stenvar has done his best to stick close to his charge, and Delphine is close by as well, but Esbern is nowhere to be seen. There is an impressive show of magic going on in the valley below where Istha left them hiding, and she spares only a moment to wonder how talented a single Forsworn caster must be to keep the old Blade occupied this long.

Larjan is not doing well. None of them are, overwhelmed by the Forsworn's numbers and sheer tenacity, but Larjan is having a particularly tough time. Istha shoots as often as she dares, but the Forsworn fighting Larjan are small and lithe, and she fears embedding an arrow in him by accident. They seem to have picked up on him as the weak link of the group and have ganged up on his inability to swing the Axe of Eastmarch fast enough with his injured hand to keep them at bay, despite Stenvar and Delphine's best attempts to guard him.

_I need to get closer_ , she thinks, and slings her bow back over her shoulder, taking the steps down the mountain three at a time. She gets close enough to watch as he is driven to the edge of the wooden platforms, and black wisps of smoke, unnaturally dark and heavy in the air, surround him.

"No," Istha whispers, her gaze flickering in horror to the rest of their company. The others don't know that Larjan is a werewolf, and Istha cannot let them know. She keeps running, knowing she will never make it, and gives a single, wordless scream as Larjan, already partially-transformed, is driven over the platform and into the river.

Istha takes enough time to cast another atronach to replace the one that the Forsworn managed to bring down, and then she is diving into the river after her fellow Dragonborn. The water is shallow but freezing, and she sputters and trembles as her head breaks the surface of the water where she estimated Larjan would be. She looks about wildly as she treads water, but there is no sign of him, not above or below water.

She swims back to the platforms, narrowly avoiding a Forsworn arrow, where the water is shallow enough that it laps at her thighs and trips her as she wades between wooden pillars and the discarded Forsworn bodies caught on fishing nets, wounds wiped free of blood by the current. And then she sees him slumped against a pillar in the shallows.

"Larjan!" Istha calls out, no louder than she dares with the battle still raging above their heads. She wades forward, shivering violently both from the cold and the face that greets her as he stirs. He is not wolf, but he is not man either, something terribly incomplete in between, the transformation seemingly cut short by the Forsworn assault. His eyes, however, are nearly blue, blue enough that she does not hesitate before falling to her knees in front of him, palms aglow with healing light.

He gives a whine as she begins to stitch together the torn flesh in his side, where a clawed sword has taken advantage of the armour he always wears too loose on his thin frame.

"I know it hurts, I'm sorry," Istha whispers. "Larjan, you have to turn human. Turn human, before they see you, or I will have to break my promise to you, and I am scared you will not forgive me another time."

The eyes that stare back at her she mends muscle and skin are nearly blue, but hold no human understanding. She curses.

In the end, it's not Esbern or Delphine who find them. It's Stenvar, double-handed sword dripping blood as he wades into the river after his charge.

"The fuck is wrong with him?" Stenvar demands, eyes wide as he catches sight of white-blonde fur and jagged teeth behind Istha's protective silhouette.

"Nothing," Istha replies smoothly, unhooking her bow and drawing an arrow from her quiver. "I'm sorry, Stenvar."

"Woah, there's no need for that!" the mercenary replies, quickly stabbing the point of his sword into the pebbled clay of the riverbed and throwing his hands up in surrender. "Put that away before we all do something we forget, lady."

"It's not personal," Istha says, pulling the string back and sighting along her extended arm. "But I can't let you live if you've seen him."

It's only the sound of Larjan's voice, mangled and half-human, that stops her. Neither she nor Stenvar make a move, frozen still as Larjan struggles to speak again. Despite the syllables twisted around a too-long tongue and teeth like a sabrecat's, he is undeniably saying Stenvar's name. Istha is furious with herself, warring with the tension in her muscles telling her to let the arrow hit its mark, and the half-man who grips her ankle with a bloody, clawed hand, and whines again.

"I will give you another 500 gold if you never speak of this to anyone else again," she says quickly, because Stenvar's gaze is beginning to drift back to the pommel of his sword and his hands are slowly but surely lowering. "Go and keep Esbern and Delphine out of here until I figure this out."

"It's a deal," Stenvar says, giving her a predator's smile as he reaches for his sword and wrenches it out of the clay.

"Now, or I'll change my mind," Istha snarls, but he has already turned his back and is wading back to the shore with a war-cry loud enough to make her ears hurt. She lowers her bow, feeling relief flood her arm, and turns her attention back to Larjan.

He seems more human now, the claws receding and the black smoke melting his features back into those of a human quickly enough that Istha begins to hope that, with Stenvar's help, they will be able to keep Larjan's secret another day. He is still bleeding freely, the injuries easier for Istha to find and mend now that the fur is gone. He watches her with blue-gold eyes as she keeps him glowing golden long after her nose starts dripping blood into the river.

Larjan reaches out to try to wipe it away, and immediately withdraws his hand when one of his claws nicks her cheek. His mouth struggles around her name, and she ignores it until he is human again, weak and slumped against the wooden pillar.

"Istha," he says again. "You didn't kill him."

She doesn't miss the note of pride in his voice, instead growing angry at the tired smile he gives her.

"I should have," she says. "That man is like me. He doesn't care about honour, he cares about gold. And if there's not enough gold, he has no reason to keep his silence. He's going to get you _killed_ , Larjan. No one cares how great of a hero you are as a man, they'll want to murder you as a wolf!"

"Stenvar... good man," Larjan mutters, eyelids drooping low. "Like you. Gold, _shmold_."

Istha doesn't know how to reply to that as she pokes him with a finger sparking with electricity, enough to jolt him back into the waking world.

"Eyes open," she reminds him grimly. "We're not done here yet."

The sounds of combat above their heads has quieted, but not been silenced. Istha casts one more atronach to aid their companions, even though the extra magic has her slumped against Larjan and clutching at her head with a weak moan.

Larjan stands, unevenly but with more strength than she currently has, and they emerge onto the shore, holding onto each other for balance. The sight that greets them is sobering. The Forsworn bodies are easier to face when their headdresses obscure their face, but many of the corpses that stare up at the sky have lost their masks in the battle. Istha thinks momentarily of the two young Bretons cooking in the cave, the ones she doubts were old enough to have reached Breton adulthood, and then forces herself not to think anymore.

_That is the difference_ , she realizes, _between bandits and the Forsworn. Bandits don't have children and families in their camps._

"I can't look at this anymore," Larjan says, and Istha rubs his back and stares at the sky as he retches off to the side. By the time she leads the both of them to what remains of the smoldering wooden platforms, where Esbern is bent over a violently-flailing Delphine, her face is perfectly blank.

Istha immediately sees the problem. Delphine's leather armour, not made for this kind of combat, has been torn apart by the savage Forsworn weaponry. Esbern, in his efforts to heal her... Left something in.

"I think a tooth broke off one of their swords," Esbern replies, his face drawn and pale. "I didn't realize it was still in there when I started healing. How much magicka do you have left?"

"Hardly any," Istha replies, her hand habitually reaching up to her nose. "Used everything I had left on Larjan. I've got a few potions left, do you want them or should I?"

Esbern gives her a once-over, grimacing at the blood that coats her mouth and chin, and simply extends his hand out. Istha passes the potions over and kneels beside Delphine, turning the Breton woman's face towards her.

"It's easier if you don't think about it," Istha says, and continues keeping the older woman's head turned towards her as Esbern cuts into the partially-healed flesh to remove the tooth that her skin sealed over. Delphine, to her credit, opens her mouth wide in frozen agony, but doesn't scream. Her eyes are glazed over by the time Esbern knits her back together, and Istha lets go of the Blade's limp, placid body.

"I found a way in," she says. "We could have gotten past the Forsworn. What went wrong?"

"Hagraven," Stenvar replies grimly. "Bloody thing smelled us and then the entire camp caught on."

Istha doesn't know what a hagraven is, but the distaste on the faces of all three men is plain to see, and then the dragons within her whisper _something_ had to create the man with no heart and after that it makes a disgusting amount of sense.

"Sky Haven Temple is open to us now," Istha says, turning to the steps. It feels like a hollow victory, and the lack of celebration as the five adventurers make their way through the narrow passage she shows them is resounding. It isn't until they emerge into the open-air chamber and Esbern kneels in front of three rain-worn stone pillars that the group morale begins to rise, ever so slightly.

Esbern says there must have been Akaviri symbols carved onto the pillars long ago, but only faint indents remain in the stone now after centuries of wind and rain. It is nice to have a challenge that does not involve killing, despite the quiet disagreement of her dragons. It takes so long for Esbern to direct them through every possible combination of the pillars that Istha begins to think it's more worth their while to climb the stone walls to the next walkway that traverses the chamber. When she wonders aloud, Delphine mutters something about entering Sky Haven Temple like a proper Blade and not like a thief, and Istha lets the insult slide, if only because the woman is still slumped against the stone with a glazed look in her eyes.

At last Esbern must hit upon the right combination, because there is a terrible grating sound and all five adventurers flinch as the stone walkway scrapes against the walls and then falls into place. They cross the thin bridge with some trepidation, Stenvar holding Delphine upright, and follow Esbern into yet another narrow passageway, this one criss-crossed with silvery cobwebs. He stops so abruptly that Istha nearly walks straight into Larjan.

"Wait," Esbern says, throwing an arm out to keep them back. "We should be careful here. These symbols on the floor must have been the same as the ones on the pillars."

Istha elbows her way to the front and kneels at the edge of the new chamber the passageway has opened up into, examining the tiles that cover the floor between them and the next opening. There isn't enough space along the sides for a rat to skirt the edges of the pressure plates, much less the five of them. She wrinkles her nose in displeasure.

"How do we tell which symbol is safe?" Istha asks. Stenvar gives absolutely no warning before he walks forward, a heavy chunk of rock in his two hands, and throws it forward. It lands on a tile a few paces in front of them decorated with what looks like a stylized moth. Almost instantly, fire bursts out of the openings at the corner of every tile, sending everyone scrambling back a pace.

"Not that one," Stenvar says with a grin, after the fire has abated. Esbern looks like he's trying hard to hide his amusement as he sternly reprimands the mercenary for enthusiasm, and points instead to a symbol that could, if Istha was very drunk, pass for the head of a dragon, seen from the front.

"That one is the answer, I'm sure. The ancient Akaviri symbol for Dragonborn."

"You're sure that one's safe?" Larjan asks, as Istha traces a path with her eyes. To her frustration, the symbols don't approach the opposite opening, instead coming to... _Oh!_ she thinks, seeing the handle and chain dangling from a wall. "Because if it's not, we're going to be roasted before we make it."

"I'm sure," Esbern says, but Istha is already standing, putting one foot daintily on the nearest dragon-head. Larjan's arms come around her in a vise, pulling her backwards before she can take another step.

"Istha!" he reprimands. "Are you crazy?"

"I have the lightest step out of anyone here," Istha argues. "And I'm Dunmer. Fire won't hurt me as much as it'll hurt you."

"If you stray from the Dragonborn symbol..." Esbern warns.

"I won't," Istha says, shaking Larjan's reluctant hands off of her and stepping back onto the first tile with two feet. When no bursts of fire greet her, she lets out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. With Esbern's quiet murmurs of approval, she picks her way across the chamber, following a path so winding she wants to find the ancient Akaviri and shake them by the shoulders for their unnecessary precaution. At last she reaches the chain, and pulls it down with all her weight, hearing gears grind far beneath her feet.

For a moment, no one moves, and then Istha takes a nervous step onto the tile beside her, featuring what could either be a crown or a squished insect. A moment passes, and she isn't roasted alive, so with a relieved laugh, she beckons the others forward and brushes aside spiderwebs as she enters the next passage.

"I think we must be close to the entrance!" Esbern says as they cross yet another walkway, the one Istha thought they should climb up to and bypass these silly traps entirely. Here the passageway gets so narrow that Larjan and Stenvar, with their bulky steel armour, have to turn sideways in some places to make it through. It's entirely worth it when they come to the biggest chamber yet, and Esbern gasps and exclaims how wonderfully well-preserved everything is.

Istha isn't really sure what could be well-preserved, aside from the moss covering the stone walls of the chamber, considering the sunlight filtering down through the hole in the chamber's ceiling. She doesn't notice the pale white nose poking through the growth until Esbern begins to tear strands of moss away from the far wall, revealing a carved face taller than he, as gaunt and pale as death. That doesn't seem to be enough for him, and Istha watches as he steps away from the face and gets on his hands and knees, wiping centuries of dirt away from the floor.

"Ah... Here's the blood seal," the old man says, sitting back on his heels and peering at each of their faces in turn when he reveals a circle set into the floor. "Another one of the lost Akaviri arts. No doubt triggered by... Well, blood."

Istha doesn't realize exactly why he's staring so intently between Larjan and herself, until Larjan pulls out the dagger sheathed at his side and bends down.

"You risked yourself for the last puzzle, I risk myself for this one," he argues when he says Istha stepping forward to protest, and before she can say another word against him, the dagger cuts into the soft flesh of his forearm and drips blood onto the circular seal.

"That's done it!" Delphine says, seemingly invigorated by the progress. "Look, it's coming to life!"

And indeed it is, before their very eyes. Larjan stumbled back, alarmed by the harsh white light and smoke now emanating from the seal. Istha rests her hand on his bleeding arm and gives him just enough healing magic that the wound scabs over, too exhausted by the Forsworn attack to do much more at the moment. He barely even notices her however, transfixed by the sight of the pale stone face receding up and into the wall, revealing an opening into the darkness.

Esbern steps aside, and even Delphine is beaming at the both of them.

"After you," Esbern says. "You two should have the honour of being the first to set foot inside Sky Haven Temple."

And so Istha takes a deep breath, casts a hovering candlelight, and grips Larjan's arm tightly as they ascend the staircase into darkness.

 

  
.....................................................................................................................................

 

  
As interesting as the ancient temple is, Istha is overwhelmed by the damp darkness that not even Esbern's numerous torches can chase away, and the centuries of dust cloud her nose and lungs. Stenvar doesn't seem to like the stuffiness either, and volunteers himself to go fishing for their dinner. Esbern jumps on the idea, exclaiming that a celebration is certainly in order, and everyone seems relieved by the thought of eating something other than dried rations and cheese wheels.

Istha waits a while after Stenvar departs, watching Esbern attack a cobweb infested mural in the main chamber with a broom, muttering all the while about the Akaviri arts and the knowledge he's sure is contained in the mural. Istha rather doubts the helpfulness of the stone carvings, but both he and Delphine have been so insistent on the temple being the next step for the Dragonborn, and so she leaves him to his duty.

After Delphine and Larjan have vanished into the armory, Istha slips out, backtracking through the labyrinth of passages. There is a quiver of Forsworn arrows discarded by the slightly-smoldering campfire at the mouth of the cave, and Istha regards it for a moment before picking out several arrows and adding them to her own quiver.

Stenvar is standing ankle-deep in the river, the majority of his armour piled messily on a rock behind him, calmly casting lines for fish.

Istha keeps one eye on him as she silently descends the mountain, keeping to rocky outcroppings she can crouch behind, but he has his back to her and never notices. She finds a good vantage point and settles down into it, leaning her quiver against the trunk of a juniper tree. She pulls out one of the Forsworn arrows salvaged from the remains of Karthspire and loads it onto her bow, centering it on Stenvar's broad back, one eye closed so the other can sight perfectly down the length of her outstretched arm. He still hasn't noticed her.

It would be so easy to get away with this.

The river would carry Stenvar's body away and even if the others searched for him and fount it, her scent would be long since washed away from the arrow. By its make they would assume that the remaining Forsworn who'd fled Karthspire had returned and killed him as revenge. Istha would mourn right along with them, all while safe in the knowledge she'd done the smart thing. There would be no risky loose ends remaining.

Larjan would never need to know she'd killed to protect him.

_Can I trust you or not?_

The tip of her arrow wavers, and her arm shakes so strongly that she relaxes briefly, lowering her bow. It's been several days since they departed Windhelm with Ulfric Stormcloak's piercing gaze fixed upon their backs, but the memory of Larjan's demands in the Palace's dungeons remains fresh.

"This is different," she says aloud, frowning at the thought of Larjan's voice running through her head, making her promise to be a good person. "I'm not meddling with other people's lives for myself," she mutters fiercely. "This is to keep Larjan safe, so it's okay."

She raises the bow once again and draws it back as far as she can in one swift, decisive motion. Stenvar hasn't moved from his spot, and if Istha listens carefully she can hear him whistling a faint tavern ballad, the melody slow and yearning.

"He'll never know," she says with fierce determination, as though if she speaks aloud it will be enough to silence the little voice whispering in her mind. "Stenvar's gotten us to Sky Haven Temple and completed his contract and now we don't need him anymore. There's no sense in more people knowing about Larjan than necessary."

_You're not exactly painting yourself to be some kind of selfless hero._

With a groan, she lowers the bow a second time, tossing the arrow aside and burying her face in her hands. She hadn't really thought about what she was agreeing to when Larjan gave her that ultimatum. She hadn't imagined it would put her into a situation like this, where so many other people wouldn't even considering eliminating Stenvar as a variable, but she can only see the worst case scenario.

Stenvar seems to be a good man. She can grudgingly admit that she can't imagine him spreading news of Larjan's lycanthropy with ill intentions. But like any Nord, he is a man fond of both drink and coin, and both have a habit of loosening tongues... Up until, Istha has always been ruthless when it comes to her calculations. Now, she is not so sure.

"Larjan Silver-Eyes," she whispers. "Your kindness will get you killed one day."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE. Took some liberties with briarheart mechanics. Istha is finally developing morals!  
> My friend is yelling at me to come to dinner, so I'm posting this real quick. Haven't proofread, so if there's missing italics or misspelled words, oops. I'll come back to edit later tonight.


	10. The Rise and Fall of the Blades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My strategy for writing these chapters is: How is Istha going to absolutely ruin all Larjan's plans with a dangerous idea? Yes okay, let's do that.

Sky Haven Temple is a haven for nothing but dust.

While the remnants of grandeur are visible in the high ceiling and the smooth lines of cut stone, Larjan’s eye can’t help but linger on the footsteps they leave behind in them in centuries of dust and dirt as Esbern lights every torch sconce he can find, humming idly to himself, and the holes in the ceiling of the main chamber where rock has fallen through to expose sky and strands of moss that hang through the gaps and brush the surface of a stone table that hasn't borne food in several lifetimes. The draft coming through sends a wave of cold down Larjan’s spine, and he resists the urge to shiver.

Stenvar seems to disapprove of the temple’s haunting interior as well, because he almost immediately volunteers himself to go catch dinner in the Karth river, and vanishes back into the Forsworn tunnels, leaving only a whistling melody in his trail. Istha gazes after his retreating back for a moment, before she catches Larjan’s eyes on her and raises her eyebrows as though to challenge him before turning away. He wonders, briefly, if he and Stenvar are on the same page. He should go after the other man himself, test the waters now that his lycanthropy has been revealed.

In the end it’s Delphine who makes the decision for him, tugging him aside and insisting he come take inventory of the armoury with her. Larjan takes one last look over her shoulder as Delphine tugs him along, watching Esbern making a beeline for the strangely-carved wall behind the table and tearing away whatever meagre foliage has made a home in the dim light afforded by the caved in ceiling. Istha is with him, apparently unbothered by his archaeological ramblings, and so Larjan leaves them be.

“I’m not really certain how much help I’ll be at this,” Larjan comments as Delphine carries a torch into a dark alcove offset from the main chamber. “A few months ago, I didn't know a thing about the Blades.”

“Then you will learn,” Delphine responds, unperturbed by his doubt as she raises the torch, letting flickering orange light illuminate rusted chests stacked atop each other, stone shelves lined with cobwebbed helmets, and - to Larjan’s intense discomfort - a mannequin in the corner that seems to move when the torch’s shadows dance in the right places. “Take off your armour.”

“Why?” Larjan asks, one hand automatically going for the carved wolf head between his collarbones. Though it’s been a long time since he’s seen his fellow Companions, and at this point isn't even sure they’d welcome him back since he hasn't sent word at all, he’s loathe to part with the armour. It brings him a strange sort of vicious comfort, same as the Wolf that prowls at the back of his mind, always ready for the next fight.

“I've seen men wear barrels better than you wear that,” Delphine responds dryly. “You should have gotten a better fit instead of wearing it loose like that. In any case, it’s seen better days. I want to see you in these.”

He nearly drops the chainmail tunic the older woman tosses his way, and the breeches that follow. He eyes her back nervously for a moment, but she seems preoccupied with tearing apart the chests on the far side of the room. The wood is soft and rotten, and she is pulling out boots and helmets within minutes.

Larjan strips quickly, quietly, loathe to turn his back in case Delphine catches a glimpse of the scars on his back. Logically, he knows she must have seen them when he stumbled back into Riverwood with M'aiq as the only thing keeping him on his feet, but that doesn't mean he’s okay with her seeing them again. The chainmail is in surprisingly good condition, and he runs his hands along the tiny links with something close to reverence. It’s just steel, from what he can tell, but crafted with a talent he’s not sure any smith in Skyrim could replicate today.

Once he’s decent, Delphine insists on dressing him in the rest of the set, picking and choosing from the discarded pieces. It’s heavier on his shoulders than the Companion’s armour, but he likes the greater range of movement his legs have now, and Istha finally won’t tease him for having a ‘skirt’ anymore.

“You look like a proper Blade,” the Breton woman responds, looking as pleased as he’s ever seen her as she holds the torch up higher and motions for him to spin like a young girl showing off a new dress. Larjan humours her, if only because the journey here has been difficult and they all need a break from the duties that hang over their heads.

As Delphine rummages about for a set her size, Larjan's eye is caught by the gleam of metal by his foot. He bends down, ducking his head to avoid hitting the edge of a table that looks near ready to collapse on top of him. Everything on the floor beneath the table has been rusted by the years of abandonment, except for the golden guard of a sword that lies forgotten, nestled under decaying leather and torn chainmail.

He reaches for it, untangling the scabbard from broken metal links and finding that it is longer than he expected. The hilt looks designed for one hand, but it's long enough that Larjan thinks he could use two if he needed the extra power. The black leather wrappings feel worn to his touch, but not by years, only by the steady hands of a previous owner. His fingers find the same grooves with ease, and the current of something powerful runs through him, making him gasp and nearly drop the sword back into the pile of deteriorated equipment.

But the sharp shock that runs up his arm and throughout his body doesn't feel malicious, unexpected and slightly painful as it is. It feels like the familiar ache in his muscles the morning after a day spent hammering away at the forge, or the shock of suddenly falling into an icy river fed by a mountain spring on a warm day, or like unwrapping a nearly-healed injury. It feels good.

"Are you all right?" Delphine asks, having paused her inventory at his gasp.

"More than all right," Larjan murmurs, standing and running his fingers along its sheathe, which is just as mysteriously undamaged as the rest of it. He sees Delphine reaching for the torch and bringing it closer out of the corner of his eye, but his eyes don't need the added light to admire the intricately carved coiled serpent that forms the sword's guard, a tiny metal mouth gaping open as though preparing to strike. He draws it out of the sheathe, nearly dropping it a second time when bright blue sparks dance along the length of the blade, an ancient enchantment come alive.

"Dragonbane," Delphine says, her mouth so puckered in awe that Larjan might have found it comical if he wasn't sure his face bore a similar expression. "I had no idea it would still be in such a condition..."

Larjan grins broadly as he makes a few experimental slashes with the sword, marveling at its lightness and the ease with which it balances in his hand, even though he's unused to a blade this long. He doesn't have to have the Blade's history memorized to know that this is an exceptional weapon, if the powerful enchantment didn't already give it away. Its edge is so fine that when he turns the sword sideways he can hardly tell where one side of blade begins and where the other ends. Larjan thinks that if he plucked a hair and lined it up nicely, he could cut it in half length-wise with this sword. He'd shake the hand of its maker if he could.

"Your swing is incorrect," Delphine observes, having apparently gotten over her shock as she observes Larjan getting a feel for the sword. "The ancient Blades used a very different style of fighting. I can show you the techniques, if you'd like."

"Absolutely," Larjan says, and he couldn't hide the smile on his face if he tried as Delphine reaches for a similar sword hanging on the wall. It just feels unimaginably good to have this sword in his hand after so many weeks of struggling with his mangled fingers. It's as though the enchantment that produces tiny sparks of electricity has bled into him, lighting up an excitement he'd almost forgotten is in him.

The sound of conversation from the main chamber lets them know Stenvar's returned with their next meal, and Delphine grabs him by the elbow, giving him only enough time to grab Dragonbane's sheathe before pulling him to join the others.

"Wait until Esbern sees you!" the woman hisses into his ear, and the childish delight on her own face makes her look ten years younger, no longer the cynical, battle-weary old woman the Thalmor have made her. "Esbern, Esbern look!"

Larjan stumbles a step forward as Delphine gives him a good-natured shove, but at her encouraging nod he waves Dragonbane at his audience in what he hopes is an impressive way. When neither Stenvar nor Esbern say anything at first, Larjan thinks he's made a fool of himself, but then the dim light from above catches a trail of tears down Esbern's dirty, wrinkled cheeks, and Stenvar turns to Delphine and all but _begs_ for a new set of armour of his own. She's only too happy to lead the old mercenary back to the armoury. Istha is nowhere to be found, most likely plundering other rooms in the temple for forgotten gold, and so it falls to Larjan to reassure an inconsolable Esbern.

The old Blade clutches at the basket of fish that Stenvar dumped in his arms like a lifeline, and it takes Larjan a minute to coax it out of his grip once he's directed Esbern to sit in a stone chair.

"There, there," Larjan says, awkwardly patting Esbern's wrist, only to pull his hand back quickly when the old man's tears come even faster, leaving clean trails down a face that still hasn't been washed of all the grime and blood it cost for them to get to this point. Istha appears in the main chamber like a ghost, wide-eyed and bearing a strange expression on her face, an expression that Larjan will only recognize as guilt weeks from now. "Help me out with him?" he mouths, jerking his head in Esbern's direction.

Istha comes closer, eyeing Esbern warily, and promptly shakes her head.

"He likes you better anyway," she says, before taking off with Stenvar's basket of fish, having apparently decided she'd rather prepare dinner than console the old man. Larjan mouths a swear at her vanishing back before turning back to Esbern.

"I just never thought I'd get to see this again," the old man chokes out, voice made low and gravely by emotion as he peers at the last Dragonborn with a far-away sadness in his eyes. Larjan understands with a jolt, realizing that even though Esbern's looking straight at him, he's seeing his slain comrades instead.

"Would it help if I changed back into my old armour?" Larjan asks carefully, returning Dragonbane to its sheathe.

"No, no," Esbern insists. "The Blades look suits you well, Dragonborn."

When Stenvar reappears after another moment, wearing the same armour as Larjan - though he's chosen to forgo the forked-tongue helmet - the old man is once again racked with emotion, but he gives Larjan a toothy smile despite the tears and waves him off to go help with dinner, excusing his outbursts on the 'whims of an old man.'

Larjan leaves his helmet along with the more easily removed pieces of his armour on the table, and then tracks down Istha by the faint scent she's left behind. She always smells a little bit like magic and campfires. He finds her in the Forsworn cave, idly turning over skewered fish over a roaring fire.

"Look at you, making dinner for once," he says, smirking slightly when she jumps at the sound of his voice. She gives him a hard look over the cooking fire, red eyes flashing with more than just the reflections from the flames.

"I take it you calmed Esbern down?" she responds, pointedly ignoring his teasing jab.

"Yeah. I guess it's a lot for him to take in one day," Larjan says, making a sweeping gesture with his arm to indicate the cave. "You shouldn't be out here alone. What if some Forsworn come back?"

"You let Stenvar go alone," Istha responds, eyes fixed upon the roasting slabs of fish. She carefully turns over a spit that didn't need adjusting, and his eyes sweep over the tension in her shoulders, the deliberately casual retort.

"What did you say to get him to stay quiet?"

"I offered him an obscene amount of gold," she admits after a long pause. Then she stands, taking several spits off the fire and thrusting them in his direction without looking, effectively ending that stream of conversation. "These ones are done. I'll be back in a moment with what's left."

Larjan lingers another heartbeat, frowning at the jerky motions of her hands as she struggles to keep busy under his gaze. She's expecting him to argue. He ducks his head, rubbing at his temples in an effort to chase away the headache that threatens to build there. He tries to avoid getting angry for these very reasons. The line between Man and Wolf grows blurred when his emotions run high, and it takes all his concentration to straddle the divide.

"Thanks, Istha," he says softly instead, and retreats to Sky Haven Temple. He feels her red eyes on his back the whole way there, even with rock and distance between them.

 

..............................................................................................................................

 

At the end of the day, they set up their bedrolls in the main chamber, too exhausted to search for shelter any deeper into the Temple. Larjan catches Stenvar watching him as he folds a spare tunic into a makeshift pillow, and a discrete glance around tells him none of the others are close enough to hear a conversation.

"I didn't get a chance to thank you earlier," Larjan says quietly. "For keeping my secret."

Stenvar only frowns at his furs for a moment, and Larjan wonders if he's done something wrong by acknowledging their unspoken agreement. But then the old mercenary speaks, and he does not sound angry, only weary.

"Everyone's got their vices," he says. "Mine's gold. Yours is occasionally growing enough fur and fangs to make Ysgramor's hairy armpits envious."

Larjan can't help it, he laughs at that. When he looks back up, the older mercenary has a small smile on his own face.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he says quietly, crawling between his furs and lying on his back. He can feel the events of that day in every ache of his body, but he can't complain when Istha's healing took away the worst of the damage.

"Aye," Stenvar replies. "You do that. Keep your fangs to yourself, Dragonborn, and you won't have any trouble from me."

  
..............................................................................................................................

 

If Larjan thought that finally reaching their destination meant they'd get a chance to rest, he thought wrong. The next few days are a flurry of activity, of nabbing furniture from what's left of the Forsworn encampment and exploring the forgotten crevices of the Temple. The only person who remains motionless is Esbern, seated in front of the carved wall in the main chamber with tattered scrolls and yellowed books strewn about him, and the rest of them move around him like water moves around a sturdy rock in a river.

After they find the equivalent of a small library hidden in a room that has miraculously escaped the elements, Esbern becomes even more withdrawn, buried nose deep in archives and prophecies.

Every once in a while someone will draw him out of his trance long enough to make him eat or stretch his legs, but he always stubbornly returns to his studies, muttering about _ambiguous translations_ and _second era sculptural reliefs_ and _by the gods, if you would just let me think!_

Delphine, for her part, will only tell Larjan that the secret to the next step of their journey is hidden inside the carvings of that wall, and if anyone can decipher it, it's the elderly Blades archivist.

The waiting doesn't mean they get to sit around doing nothing. After they've converted some of the side chambers into living quarters, Delphine ushers him and Stenvar into the courtyard at the back of the temple. Once Larjan gets over the quite literally breaktaking view - and the drop, as Stenvar comments dryly - he has to admit it's a good place to train. After they get moving, even the cold seems to melt away, reducing Larjan's world to this tiny patch of cobblestone and the grip of a Blades sword in his hand.

At first, Delphine leads her two new pupils through singular exercises. Larjan is secretly pleased that he manages to pick up the Akaviri's sweeping motions and lightfooted dodges faster than Stenvar, but the old mercenary laughs off every face-first sprawl the uneven cobblestones cause him to make. Larjan appreciates the man's company and good nature.

It makes it easier for him to cope with the fact that even though he can dance out of his opponent's reach and twist on his feet like he's weightless, every fight ends with the sword clattering uselessly against the ground.

Larjan can't stay ahead of Stenvar's slashes and strokes forever. Even with the Wolf contributing to his strength and agility, his body grows tired eventually, and when he tries to block any particularly powerful strikes with the length of the blade, his fingers lose grip and he finds himself weaponless, looking at the point of a sword.

Delphine won't let him practice with Dragonbane, telling him that relic of a blade is too precious for a mere sparring match, but when she finally lets them drag their beaten and bruised bodies back into the Temple every nightfall, he finds a dark, secluded corner and pulls it out of its sheathe. It's comforting to him to hold it, even if it's just to lay it in his lap and let the sparks of electricity tickle his trailing fingers. The sword fits his hand better than any other Blades sword.

He eyes Stenvar on the far side of the main chamber and thinks to himself that he could take him on with Dragonbane, if only Delphine let him.

He even tries to get Istha to mimic the enchantment on another sword, but she barely even touches the blade before shoving it back into his arms and crawling into her bedrolls, where she stubbornly remains for several hours, trembling violently. She refuses to try again later, and Esbern surfaces from a sea of yellow parchment long enough to inform them that Dragonbane's enchantment was the combined work of several of the most talented Blades mages, and it would be both foolish and dangerous to attempt to recreate it.

"I'm busy, anyway," Istha adds, and Larjan has been meaning to ask what she does with her days now that he spends all of his as Stenvar's pincushion, but she gets a faraway look in her eyes and vanishes back into the library before he can form sentences from his thoughts. At night, she curls up at his side and wakes when he does, and they don't speak but when he thinks he hears water _drip drip dripping_ at the edges of the chamber she trails her fingers over his wrist, feather-light, and he catches the unspoken message there.

_You are okay. You are still fighting. You will do this._

So instead he grits his teeth and takes up arms at Delphine's directions, dressing in his Blades armour at sunrise and only taking it off at sundown. And he nearly loses himself in the monotony of losing, until one day, he doesn't.

It takes him a moment to realize that the sword that tinkles so prettily as it falls on the cobblestone - almost like the windchimes that hang from Khajitti tents that shelter glowing eyes and foreign wares - isn't his. And then Stenvar is cheering, picking himself up off the ground and opening his arms wide. All the breath leaves Larjan's lungs when the mercenary's heavy hand claps him on the back, but he returns the embrace all the same, eyes watering as he sucks air back into his lungs.

Delphine declares their practice done even though the sun is still lingering on the horizon, casting Larjan's silhouette into a sharp, elongated shadow that stretches up the stairs back to the Temple.

Dinner that night seems more elaborate than usual. Esbern pops the cork on an absolutely ancient bottle of wine that has them all sputtering and spitting after the first sip, but the salmon steaks melt in his mouth and a mouthful of strong-smelling cheese chases away the acrid taste of the wine quickly enough.

"It's been a good day," Delphine says, when the five of them have sated themselves and are leaning back in their chairs, lulled to contentment with full bellies and the sort of dreamy haze that usually accompanies strong wine. "These past days have been everything Esbern and I could have hoped for."

"I'll raise my drink to that," the elderly archivist comments, and it could just be the flickering light of the fire they've lit to warm the chamber but Larjan's swears a significant look passes between him and Delphine. The Breton woman seems to hesitate a moment before continuing.

"Stenvar, I know it might seem sudden, but you've taken to our swordplay with admirable skill," she says.

"You flatter me, sweetheart," Stenvar replies with a toothy grin. "But we both know it's more stubbornness than skill."

"Tenacity is the first step to greatness," Istha quips from the shadows, red eyes low-lidded over the rim of her tankard.

"Regardless. Esbern and I have been talking, and we'd like to extend you a formal invitation to join the Blades. Permanently," Delphine says. Larjan's gaze snaps to Stenvar, who, for the first time in a while, seems at a loss for words. He sets his tankard down slowly, staring at it as though it might tell him what to do next.

"All my life, I haven't done much but work for gold," Stenvar says quietly. "My best friend got himself killed by a bear when I was young because he wouldn't stop hunting for glory, so it never held any incentive for me."

"You don't have to give us an answer just yet," Delphine says, but Stenvar hardly seems to hear her, still deep in thought.

"I'll do it," he declares after another moment. "I'm too old and too ugly to find a nice girl and settle down, and gold doesn't do much to warm the heart. A man's gotta have something to live for when his bones start creaking. That is..." he says, his brow furrowing and his head swinging towards Larjan. "If you don't mind me leaving your service."

"I don't," Larjan says quickly. "I... I'm glad this is happening."

"There we go," Stenvar says, turning his attention back to Delphine and Esbern. "What do I gotta do? Sign a contract? Make a sacrifice?"

Esbern snorts into his tankard, but Delphine is far more professional about hiding her smile.

"Just an oath. Do you wish to become a Blade, Stenvar? Are you willing to trade away all claims and titles of your former life? To live here and devote yourself from protecting Tamriel from danger?"

"Dibella's heavy tits, didn't I just say I do? How many times will you make me say it?"

"Once will do," Delphine responds, a smile playing on her lips. She reaches forward and grabs the wine bottle from Esbern and fills Stenvar's nearly empty tankard to the brim. "Drink up, Blade."

They all do. Larjan leans back in his chair and tilts his head back, letting it hit the backrest. One of the holes in the ceiling is just above his head, and through it, he can see a sky as black as a pool of spilled ink, speckled with tiny cold stars. The dinner banter washes over him but he doesn't really listen to the words, just sinks in the feeling of companionship he thought he lost when he left Jorrvaskr in a flurry of snarling pale fur.

At one point thin tendrils of borealis play out in the opening, blue and green and tinged with purple, and he nearly speaks, nearly draws their attention to it, but it fades as quickly as it comes and he allows himself to keep it for his own. The others have seen plenty of northern lights, he thinks, and hardly bat an eye at the sight of another. They never had to spend two months locked underground, thinking they'd never see the sky change colours again.

Still, even with a distance between them that will never completely fade, he is glad they are here with him. When Istha pushes back her chair and stands, she reaches for him, laying her hand gently on his shoulder.

"I'm going to go to bed," she says. "You coming?"

"Stenvar?" Larjan asks. "You mind if we leave your celebration?"

"Nah," the mercenary says, cracking a crooked smile at them. "You go on. Get some rest so you can knock me down again tomorrow, bright and early."

"Will do," Larjan calls over his shoulder, already standing and following Istha. The fire in their sleeping quarters hasn't completely gone out, the embers still glowing warmly, but she relights it with a wave of her hand, then motions him over to the hearth.

"I thought you were going to bed?" he asks as she pulls a package out from behind her, neatly wrapped in what Larjan sorely suspects is his own spare tunic.

"I am. But first, your own congratulations are in order. I hear you defeated Stenvar today," she says, her smile surprisingly soft for once.

"Only because he tripped," Larjan jokes, but he takes the package from her hands all the same, feeling its weight in his hands.

"You sell yourself short," Istha says. "You've gotten a lot stronger. I'd say you've more than earned a gift."

Larjan's curiosity gets the best of him. He unwraps his present gingerly - he was right, she wrapped it in his own damn tunic - and squints at the book that falls into his lap, tilting it so that the fire's light falls on the cover. He realizes how long it's been since he read when it takes him a moment to decipher the book's title.

"Kolb and the Dragon," he says flatly. "You've given me a child's tale."

"I found it in the Forsworn camp, I've been waiting for the right moment to give it to you ever since. You mentioned that you were learning to read, and the words are simple enough, and... It's fitting for us, isn't it? A story about a brave Nord warrior who has to go kill a dragon?"

Her eyes gleam with mirth as she explains herself, and for a moment Larjan is not sure if he wants to kiss her or hit her with his new book. As always, it's a bit of both.

"Very fitting," he agrees with a long-suffering sigh, but her amusement is infectious and he finds that he does not mind quite so much as he cracks open the book. The book shows clear signs of having been well-loved, but he doesn't let himself think too hard about its previous owners. This night is for themselves and for their victories. "So this is what you've been doing all day while I'm training? Looking for new ways to tease me?"

"That," Istha agrees cheerfully, tugging her hair out of its braid and letting it fall loose around her shoulders. "And making healing potions. I reckon I've made fifty of the damn things so far. And learning more magic. There are spelltomes in the Blades archives, did you know that?"

"As long as you don't get yourself into trouble," Larjan responds.

"Me? Trouble? Never," she responds lightly, standing and treading lightly to her bedroll. "You should ask Delphine to let you off early more often. Come read with me."

"I might," Larjan says quietly, closing the cover carefully and setting the fairytale aside for bed.

 

..............................................................................................................................

 

Of course it was too much to hope for that Istha wouldn't find trouble, even inside a mountain in the middle of the wilderness.

It starts with a storm. It starts like this.

Rain hasn't stopped Delphine from rousing Larjan and Stenvar from sleep and shooing them into the courtyard before. Even though there's less snow in the Reach than in Eastmarch, it still doesn't mean the elements are in their favour. Larjan's learned to blink rainwater out of his eyes and ignore the burn of his lungs as he gets up for another match, and to clean his armour thoroughly at the end of the day to make sure rust doesn't catch.

That's until one morning that remains nearly as dark as night, shadowed by heavy gray clouds hanging low in the sky. Delphine eyes the strikes of lightning that arch across the horizon like Dragonbane's sparks, her braid whipping against her back in the strong gusts of wind. Her lips are pressed together in a thin, unhappy line when she shakes her head and motions them back into the Temple.

Larjan thinks keeping busy is how she forgets about everything she's left behind.

The storm lasts several days, and by the third one, tempers are running high. Sky Haven is large, but not so large to keep everyone occupied. Istha and Esbern continue on much as they had before, engrossed in their own work, and Larjan ends up hiding in the archives with his fellow Dragonborn to avoid an increasingly frustrated Delphine.

After Larjan finishes reading _Kolb and the Dragon_ , Istha lends him more stolen books. She is a good reading partner, content with curling up for several hours and not moving until one of them gets hungry or sore. The other books are harder than his fairytale, but Larjan is finding it easier as he goes on. When he is finished all of Istha's books, she looks at him grumpily for disturbing her and motions towards the bookcases arranged in neat rows.

"Take your pick," Istha says. "There's plenty of material here."

"It's boring material," Larjan says. "Esbern's already taken all the legends. All that's left is records of how many potatoes the Blades ordered in the winter of such and such year. What are you reading?"

"A spelltome," Istha replies, and he could have guessed that by the phrases she occasionally mutters under her breath as she flexes one hand, frowning at runes that make no sense to him as she tries to expand her magical repertoire. When she doesn't seem interested in elaborating, he sighs and stands, dragging one lazy finger along the spines of old journals. He finds something with dragons in the name, and pulls it out of the shelf, flipping open to a random page.

And that's when the tear in reality appears behind him. Larjan spins around as Istha screams, knees drawn up to her chest, arms thrown in front of her face. The spell tome lies at her side, spitting out an impressive amount of purple smoke.

The smoke swirls in a violent whirlwind as the tear widens and a vaguely humanoid shape pushes through it shoulders-first, clawed hands widening the gap to make room for the rest of it.

"Istha! What did you do!" Larjan yells, running to her and dragging her shaking body around the corner of the bookcase as the silhouette keeps solidifying. There is blood all over her face, streaming from her nose, and her eyes are rolled back into her head. "What is it? How do I kill it?"

She seems unable to respond with much more than a whimper, and Larjan curses, because whatever she's done, that _thing_ is now solid and evidently, angry.

"Who fancies themselves my master? Hiding cannot save you now, mortal," the creature's voice is low and grating, and reverberates in the library as though there are multiple mouths speaking, but when Larjan peeks around the bookcase, he can see only one - the creature standing a head taller than him, its skin the colour of slate and painted with dried blood. The armour alone looks deadly, sharp spikes protruding from its shoulders and joints, pulsing with dark red energy.

Larjan's no expert on magic, but the creature looks like something straight out of a nightmare. This, combined with the growl it lets out as it unsheathes the frankly gigantic greatsword on its back, makes him realize that if he wants to live, he's going to have to move.

"I am not your plaything!" the creature growls. "Where are you, summoner? I will feast on your blood!”

  
Larjan breathes a prayer to Talos, and whoever else is listening and might take pity. Weaponless and dressed only in a woolen tunic that will scarcely provide resistance for the creature’s sharp blade, he’s going to need all the blessings he can get. The Wolf is howling inside his head, so loudly that he’s surprised no one else can hear, but he can’t give in to the instinct to transform. Not inside the Temple – it’s too risky. He darts around the bookcase from the other side, away from Istha’s slumped body.

“Hey ugly!” he calls, waiting only for the creature to turn around before sprinting for the door. “Come and get me!”

He can hear its answering roar echoing off the corridors as he makes a desperate dash for the living quarters. The others are gathered in the main chambers, and Larjan can only yell at them to get up and out of the way as he runs past.

Dragonbane lies tucked under his bedroll, as always. He grabs at the hilt frantically, all but tearing the blade out of its sheathe. He has enough time to grab a discarded Blades helmet – Stenvar’s, probably – before he runs back to the main chamber. There, the other Blades have already leaped up in attack. He gets back just in time to watch the creature cleave an atronach that must be Esbern’s in half, before it bursts into flame and forces the creature back with an echoing screech.

"What is that thing?" Delphine asks breathlessly as Larjan ducks to hide behind the same column as her as the creature picks up a chair with one hand like it weighs nothing and whips it in their direction.

"I don't know, have you tried asking it?" he retorts, his mind racing as he searches for a weak spot in the creature's defenses. Even Stenvar hasn't braved going near, keeping out of range of its greatsword as he spins it around in confused circles.

"Esbern, freeze its feet!" Larjan calls, bursting out from behind the column, clutching Dragonbane tightly in his hand. The sparks sink into his palm, and it should be painful but it only makes him stand straighter, taking a deeper breath before running forward.

The old Blades archivist follows Larjan's direction, though the creature manages to evade the first block of ice, roaring in anger when the second roots its foot to the floor. Stenvar has taken the opportunity to slip around its back and bury his sword between the sharp plates that cover it from head to toe. There's no time for celebration though, because the blow only seems to give the creature more strength. Larjan yells a warning too late as it twists around and knocks Stenvar away, sending him flying into a wall. He falls there and does not rise.

"Come on Dragonborn!" Delphine shouts, appearing at his side with a brandished sword. "Just like I taught you!"

Larjan forgets to breathe as the greatsword comes towards him. There's no question of trying to block the attack, not with the creature's apparent strength. He can only dance out of reach, mirroring Delphine on the other side as it swivels its head back and forth, trying to keep track of both of them. Esbern's magical attacks catch it in the face and Larjan sees his chance, gripping Dragonbane with two hands and going for its exposed throat.

He sees the greatsword descending, but he already has momentum forward, can only twist his body and hope it only catches his side -

And then an ice spike strikes the creature's greatsword from the side, knocking it off course just enough that it barely brushes Larjan's shoulder as he plunges Dragonbane under the creature's jaw.

It doesn't collapse like a human body, instead screeching shrilly and shriveling in on itself with more of the same purple smoke that preceded its arrival. The sound of its angry voice echoes in Larjan's skull long after it vanishes and Dragonbane clatters to the floor, void of any blood or fluid.

Larjan sways gently in the spot, feeling exhausted enough that he could lie down and go to sleep in this very spot.

"Thanks for that ice spike, Esbern," he says weakly, but when he turns, Esbern is kneeling at Stenvar's side, all his attention focused on the warm golden glow he's pouring into Stenvar's immobile body.

" _You_ ," Delphine all but snarls, sheathing her sword at her side neatly and marching away. Istha is leaning against the hall that leads to the library, her shoulders hunched forwards with pain. Her eyes meet Larjan's, and then she is sliding down the wall, slumping at its base weakly. "You summoned that, didn't you? Did you not think you'd get us killed?"

"Delphine!" Larjan chastises, running forward and grabbing the woman's arm. "Hold on. I'm angry at her too, but look at her. She's in no condition for this right now."

"Tell that to Stenvar!" Delphine cries, shaking her arm out of his grip and stepping away with a glare.

"Stenvar will heal," Esbern says quietly. Both Larjan and Delphine visibly relax when they turn towards him and see the old mercenary stirring with a pained groan.

"You can yell later," Larjan tells Delphine. "If it makes you happy, we can even line up for it."

He pushes past her and crouches next to Istha, who at least seems more responsive than she was when he left her in the library. She's still shaking violently, and he wonders how she managed to not just launch that well-timed ice spike, but also aim it. Larjan doesn't even try to make her walk, just picking her up and holding her trembling frame close. Her head lolls weakly on his shoulder as he carries her past Esbern, and Larjan can't help but think that this summoning business is far riskier than it's worth.

"No one else I know would have been able to find trouble inside a fucking mountain," Larjan mutters as he sits her on her bedroll. She only gives a quiet groan in reply as he tries to move away, and he stills instantly, worried he's worsened some hidden injury, but she only presses her cheek against his arm and gives him a pleading, broken look. "All right, I'll stay," he says softly.

By the time Esbern comes, the flow of blood from Istha's nose has mostly lessened, but she is still shaking, and her skin is clammy and cold. Larjan wraps her in all the furs within arms-reach, and she blinks at him, long and slow, a wordless apology.

"You should have known better than to attempt to conjure a dremora lord," Esbern says as his hands hover over Istha's forehead, radiating the light of a healing spell Larjan has grown to know too well. He watches anxiously as Esbern withdraws his hands after a moment, and Istha is still shaking, still limp in his arms.

"Can't you heal her?" he asks Esbern, frowning as the old man sits back on his heels, hands folded in his lap.

"Magicka overuse isn't a physical injury," Esbern says. "Healing helps with the headache and the nosebleed, perhaps, but the only real cure is time. Her stores will replenish themselves in a day or two. Hopefully you will have learned something from this experience, Dragonborn."

"What about those potions you drink when you're running low on magic?" Larjan insists.

Esbern seems frustrated by his line of questioning, rocking back and forth on his heels as he frowns down at Istha.

"The potions make it easier to connect with the stores of magicka we already have and use them more efficiently. They don't give us more than we had to begin with. Only practice can do that," he says.

"There's nothing you can do to make it easier?"

Istha twitches weakly, and Esbern hesitates.

"Nothing that _I_ can do," Esbern says, and Larjan doesn't miss the way he stresses his words. "Istha, you studied at the College, didn't you?" He gets a tiny nod in response. "If those mages have any sense, one of the first spells they should have taught you is equilibrium. But it would be easier for you to just wait it out."

Larjan knows she's made her decision as soon as Esbern adds on those last few words, seeing something else besides bone-deep exhaustion flare in her eyes. With one trembling hand, she finds Larjan's, and pulls it to her mouth. He stares down at her in confusion as she presses down on his knuckles with the little strength she can muster, his palm covering the entire lower half of her face and smearing the drying blood on her gray skin.

"Istha..." he warns, but she only blinks at him again, her eyes pleading, and then there is red pouring out of her palm. Larjan nearly scrambles backwards as the ghostly imprint of a fire blooms over her legs and her hips, followed by an translucent ice spike through the stomach. He reaches forwards with his free hand, but his fingers go right through the spike, and then it is gone, replaced by other, equally fleeting images.

The attacks aren't real, but the pain is real, and he can tell because Istha is thrashing on the bedrolls, back arched and tears trailing down the sides of her face despite tightly closed eyes. Larjan lets go of her mouth to lunge for the flickering spell in her hand, and her scream seems to echo in Sky Haven's halls long after she falls silent at last. He wants to flee throughout it all, unable to stand watching, but he remembers every night waking with the shadows of fear in his mind and her hand wrapped tightly in his own, and he knows he owes it to her. So he stays until her eyes close.

 

..............................................................................................................................

 

Istha finds him rereading _Kolb and the Dragon_ by the waning light of the cooking fire in the main chamber. He sets it down as she approaches, thumb tucked between the pages he was on. Her bare feet are silent on the stone but he can smell her. The Wolf can always smell her, always knows where she is in relation to him.

"It's good to see you walking again," he says as she sits down beside him, using the handle of their soup ladle to poke at the pile of firewood. He is speaking quietly because Esbern is asleep in the chair next to him, cheek pressed against a stack of old tomes and scrolls, and he doesn't have the heart to disturb the only bit of rest he's seen the archivist take in a long time.

"You say that like you had doubts it would happen."

Her tone is light but after so many months Larjan's learned to read her, learned to pick apart her attitude like a vulture picks apart a carcass.

"Your little magic trick scared me," he admits, looking down at his book and smoothing his hand over the stretched leather cover. The corner of an odd page sticks out, a little larger and yellower than the other pages, and Larjan tucks it back safely.

"It's not that bad," Istha says, shrugging as she draws her knees closer to her, but Larjan was there firsthand and has to disagree. "Better than lying around for another two days with a magical hangover. At least this way it's over quickly, right?"

"Mages," Larjan mutters, shaking his head in mock disgust.

Unlike Istha, he hears Delphine coming. She's been in a disagreeable mood ever since they brought down the dremora, as Esbern called it, but now that Istha is up and about, her ire is even greater.

"You're awake," the Breton says flatly. "Good. Now we can talk about your poor decision making skills. What in Tamriel were you _thinking?_ "

Istha gets that steely look in her eyes that Larjan has learned usually precedes her making more bad decisions, raising her chin defiantly and staring Delphine down. Esbern is stirring now.

"I was thinking that if Larjan gets to train to be stronger, I do too," she says. "The only way to mitigate the damage dragons do in close quarters is providing them with distractions. If I can successfully summon a dremora lord, he can attack from one side and Larjan from another-"

"You saw how well successfully summoning a dremora worked out for you," Delphine says.

"That's just because I didn't finish binding his will to me!" Istha cries. "Next time I try, I'll-"

"There will be no next time!" Delphine's closed fist smashes down on the table at the end of her words, and Larjan doesn't see even a hint of a flinch from her as she glares down at Istha.

"There's the possibility of a compromise," Esbern mentions, his words only slightly slurred by the vestiges of sleep.

"No compromise," Delphine insists, swinging her head around to glare at Esbern now instead of Istha. "No more dremoras."

"That's not what I meant. Peace, Delphine," Esbern says, raising one hand, palm out, to silence her coming argument. "Istha has a point. Larjan and Stenvar have been training enough that it's time to test their skills out on a real opponent, and Istha can practice with conjurations more suited to her ability."

Larjan stiffens. He sees where this is going, and he does not like it. Almost unconsciously, his fingers once again find the loose page in _Kolb and the Dragon_ , teasing its worn edge nervously.

"Dragontooth Crater is a dragon lair just north of here," Esbern continues calmly, his gaze resting on each of them in turn. "Considering the pull Word Walls have on dragons, I wouldn't be at all surprised if one of Alduin's resurrected allies has claimed it. Once Stenvar recovers, you can make quick work of it."

"The five of us against one dragon?" Larjan asks, incredulous. He and Stenvar have only just gotten the hang of the Blades technique, Delphine and Esbern are not getting any younger regardless of how strong they may be in battle, and Istha... Larjan risks a glance at Istha, and finds her eyes unfocused, her fingers curling and uncurling in her lap like she's preparing a spell.

Istha can't be trusted near dragons. Not as long as her own still roar inside her head like Larjan's used to.

"The four of you," Esbern corrects, and Larjan's hopes plummet even lower. "I've almost cracked the cypher used in the runes on Alduin's Wall and I can't leave it now when I'm so close. It speaks of some kind of great weapon. By the time you return, I'm almost certain I'll have its name for you."

"Then it's settled," Delphine says.

"That's a terrible idea," Larjan says. "We're gonna get ourselves killed."

"Do you doubt your abilities, Dragonborn?" Delphine demands, staring him down. "Don't forget that we have a duty to the people of Tamriel. Your ultimate goal is to defeat Alduin, yes, but if we don't eradicate all the other dragons as well, there won't be anyone left alive for you to save."

Suddenly Larjan feels less like a legendary warrior leading a group of dragonslayers and more like a child being sent to his room, not trusted to make decisions. He stares at the edge of the odd page out in his book of fairytales, and wants to yell and fight and refuse.

"Fine," he says instead. "Whatever. I need air."

And so he stands and goes to the courtyard where he and Stenvar have knocked each other down so many times, and he pilfers a bottle of mead from the old mercenary's not-very-secret-stash behind the archery targets, and he sits as close to the cliff as he dares and drinks. The mead is sweet, too sweet, and does hardly anything to his mind. It's been nearly impossible for him to get drunk since drinking Aela's blood.

But he tries anyway, if only to drown his doubts.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do believe it's been about a year since I started this story. *blows celebratory trumpet* I started this simply because I'm terrible at writing romance and I wanted to practice, and I figured if I was going to learn how to write about love, I was going to do it with dragons in the background, dammit. Funny how that only lasted about 10 chapters before I gave up and sent my characters to opposite ends of Skyrim.  
> Holy fuck, it's taking a long time to write. Mostly because I've been trying to improve my dialogue and description. A year ago, my longest chapters were around 2000 words. They've more than quadrupled since. That's ridiculous. I'm ridiculous. We're all ridiculous for reading/writing video game fanfiction.
> 
> Dragonbane is magical and is going to fix all of Larjan's problems, I don't care how unrealistic it is, I've been waiting to give it to him literally since he broke out of the Thalmor Embassy. My child needs some happiness in his life. 
> 
> I have lots of ideas for how magic works in Skyrim and I can't work them all into this story and that makes me mad. For anyone who was confused by the equilibrium scene, my explanation is that every spell cast upon a person temporarily leaves a certain imprint on them. What equilibrium does is reuse some of the magicka used in that spell, and give it to them. Only because the laws of magic are cruel and unfair and it's more dramatic this way, they have to relive the effects of that spell. And because Dragonborns lead such adventurous lives, all the spells Istha had to reuse were attacks. *shrugs*
> 
> I went to bed at 4 am and I'm ranting and I have mathematical proofs to write, so I must go now.


End file.
